A 


,_1 


f 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


f 


GIFT  OF 


Mrs.    George   Gore 


POEMS. 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS, 


BOSTON: 
TIC  KN  Oil    AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LIT. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S54,  by 

T.    W.    PAH  SONS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotype d  hj 
nOBART    h    ROB  li  INS, 

XIW    t.fGL4?(D   TYPE    AXP    FTtREVTVPS    FOfWDRT, 

BOSTON. 


PS 


JOHN  C.  WARREN,  M.  IX, 

EMERITUS     PROFESSOR     OF    ANATOMY     AND     SURGERY 
IN     THE    UNIVERSITY    AT    CAMBRIDGE, 

ETC.    ETC.     ETC. 

Cjjcse  3.3oems  are  Enscrtbco, 

IN  TOKEN  OF  SINCERE  LOVE  AND  REGARD, 

AND  OF  GRATITUDE 

FOR  HIS  CONSTANT  FRIENDSHIP. 

May  1,  1SD-1. 


OOOd*""¥GL 


CONTENTS. 

LETTERS. 

Preface  to  the  Letters, 11 

Epistle  to  Samuel  Rogers,  London, 13 

Epistle  to  Charles  Kemble,  London, 23 

Epistle  to  Edward  Moxon,  Publisher,  London, 31 

Epistle  to  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Florence,     38 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

On  a  Bust  op  Dante, 47 

Paraphrase  of  a  Passage  in  Dante, 50 

A  Page  of  Conchology, 55 

The  Intellectual  Republic, 57 

The  People  of  the  Deep, 61 

turenodia,  on  the  death  of  president  harrison, g5 

To  a  "Magdalen,"  a  Painting  by  Guido, G7 

Liyorno, GO 

The  Groomsman  to  his  Mistress, 75 

Campanile  Di  Pisa, 77 

Saint  Valentine's  Day, 80 

A  Saratoga  Eclogue, 82 

Vespers  on  the  Shore  of  the  Mediterranean, 80 

Louisa's  Grave, 02 


rni 

A  Story  of  tiie  Carnival, 94 

Address,  written  for  tiie  Opening  of  the  Boston  Theatre,  ....  107 

A  Song  for  September, 112 

Proem  to  Maxzoni's  "  Cinque  Maggio," 114 

Manzoni's  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Napoleon, 118 

Hudson  River, 126 

The  Feud  of  the  Flute-players, 131 

Ghetto  Di  Roma, 138 

The  Shadow  of  the  Obelisk, 148 

Upon  a  Lady,  Singing, 151 

To  a  Lady,  with  a  Head  of  Pope  Pius  Ninth, 152 

Stanzas,     154 

To  A  Lady,  with  a  Head  of  Diana, 156 

Steuart's  Burial, 158 

Epitaph  upon  David  Steuart  Robertson, 1G0 

To  a  Lady,  in  Return  for  a  Book  of  Michel  Angelo's  Sonnets,     .  161 

Sleep,     163 

Sonnet,  by  Buonagiunta  Da  Lucca,      165 

Birth-place  of  Robert  Burns, 166 

Sorrento, 168 

On  the  Death  of  Daniel  Webster, 170 

Dreams,     174 

To  James  Russell  Lowell,  in  Return  for  a  Talbottpe  of  Venice,  .  176 

Saint  Peray, 179 

Francesca  da  Rimini, 182 

Fifth  of  November  (Guy  Fawkes'  Day), 184 

On  some  Verses  of  Metastasio,     186 


LETTERS. 


1 

PREFACE  TO  THE  LETTERS. 


Ten  years  and  more !  —  it  seems  a  weary  time 
Since  first  these  fancies  took  their  shape  of  rhyme ; 
And  some  who  praised,  and  many  more  that  read 
The  trifling  lines,  are  written  with  the  dead  : 
Why,  then,  recall  them  ?    Mentor  says  't  is  best, 
Or  some  dear  friend  may,  after  I  'm  at  rest ; 
Or,  fearful  thought !  should  Bavius  find  them  out, 
And  clap  'em  in  that  volume  he 's  about, 
So  my  boy- verses  might  confront  my  age, 
And  cry  "  Thus  did'st  thou ! "  from  his  tell-tale  page ! 
What  was  their  drift  ?  —  A  whim,  without  a  plan, 
To  feign  myself  a  wandering  Englishman  : 
To  imagine  how  he  felt,  and  what  he  thought ; 
How  we  had  felt,  perchance,  if  English  taught : 
Had  we  at  Harrow  or  at  Eton  learned 
That  fine  freemasonry  that  is  not  earned 
By  bookish  toil  in  colleges  at  home, 
Nor  all  the  schools  from  Gottingen  to  Rome : 
Something  fastidious,  —  call  it,  if  you  will, 
Insular  pride,  —  but  something  genial  still ; 
Something  satirical,  —  yet  common  sense,  — 
That  sees  through  pedantry,  puts  down  pretence, 
Knows  its  own  nonsense,  and  forgivcth  yours, 
Calls  folly  by  its  name  —  and  yet  endures : 


12 


Good-humored  wisdom,  that  can  read  the  lie 
Of  the  false  world,  nor  be  enraged  thereby, 
But  keep  its  temper  and  its  truth  unmoved, 
Though  boobies  triumph,  and  the  quack 's  approved. 

But  even  ourselves  may  come  to  this  at  last 
And  rest  content,  not  proud,  with  what  is  past ; 
Our  world  shall  grow  a  less  distracting  scene, 
And  life,  less  busy,  wear  a  gentler  mien  ; 
Then,  too,  perchance,  in  countries  yet  unclaimed 
(If  such  there  be),  by  rivers  yet  unnamed, 
"Where  the  brooks  fall  to  the  Pacific's  rest, 

And  the  sun  rises  in what  was  the  West, 

To  many  a  spirit  full  of  zeal  and  young, 

"Whose  mother  speech  is  ours  and  Shakspeare's  tongue, 

Such  as  to  us  —  a  consecrated  stream  — 

Isis  hath  been,  our  little  Charles  may  seem ! 

In  Harvard's  names,  that  now  so  humbly  sound, 

St.  John's  and  Pembroke  may  by  them  be  found, 

And  what  old  England  is  to  you  and  me, 

Such  may  New  England  to  Nebraska  be ! 


EPISTLE  TO   SAMUEL  ROGERS,  LONDON. 

Nestor  of  Britain's  lyre !  —  't  is  Byron's  phrase  — 
Or  Midas !  (nay,  I  mean  you  no  dispraise) 
Midas !  I  say,  since,  whether  you  indite 
Poems  or  prose,  or  —  "payable  at  sight," 
With  bards  and  bankers  equally  enrolled, 
Whate'eryou  touch  turns  wondrously  to  gold; 
May  these  rude  lines,  however  lamely  wrought, 
Bring  back  the  pilgrim  to  your  kindly  thought ; 
Thine  was  the  last  of  many  a  parting  word 
Which  my  sad  ear,  on  leaving  England,  heard  ; 
Now  just,  it  seems,  arrived  this  side  the  sea, 
My  first  epistle  I  address  to  thee. 

Some  value,  sure,  a  thousand  leagues  may  lend 
To  verse  as  dull  as  mild  Reviews  commend ; 
Distance  and  Time  are  marvellous  magicians, 
Distance  gives  fame  —  and  sometimes  five  editions  ; 
So  common  toys,  by  Canton's  turners  made, 
Are  marked  "  five  pounds  "  in  Burlington  Arcade ; 
So  may  the  farness  of  Manhattan  give 
At  least  a  fortnight  for  my  rhymes  to  live  ; 
The  long,  salt  seasoning  of  the  Atlantic  brine 
Spins  out  the  death-pangs  of  the  weakest  line. 
And,  0,  remember,  venerable  Sam  ! 
I  rove  not  now  by  Thamis  or  the  Cam ; 


14 


Hesperia's  muse  is  but  a  lagging  bird, 

By  whose  low  flight  small  rivalry  is  stirred ; 

On  ostrich  wings  her  dull  career  is  driven, — 

Half  tied  to  earth,  half  hopping  up  to  heaven, — 

For  seldom  here  has  genius  found  in  art 

Spontaneous  utterance  for  a  flowing  heart, 

Or  sought  by  night,  in  forest  or  in  glen, 

The  tongue  of  angels  for  the  thoughts  of  men ; 

No  willows  planted  by  a  poet's  hand 

Grace  wild  Weehawken,  like  the  Twick'nham  strand  j 

If  chance  a  laurel  spring  by  Hudson's  bank, 

It  scarce  grows  beautiful,  but  only  rank ; 

For  why  ?     Apollo's  few  and  feeble  scholars 

Ply  their  dry  tasks  for  dinners  or  for  dollars ! 

But  plume  now  —  plume  thy  Fancy's  willing  pinion, 

Behold  me  here  in  Jonathan's  dominion ; 

Snug  in  the  shelter  of  that  savory  hell, 

That  marble  Malebolge  —  "  Holt's  hotel ;  " 

Where,  forced  by  crowds  from  each  genteeler  house, 

I  take,  at  one !   some  canvas-back  and  grouse  ; 

With  boors  from  Buffalo  in  "  velvet  vests," 

Sit  the  most  silent  of  the  raver.ous  guests ; 

Watch  their  huge  hunger  with  a  wondering  eye, 

Remember  you  and  Holland  House,  and  sigh. 

Perchance  you  marvel  at  my  long  delay 
Amid  the  pigs  and  liveries  of  Broadway  ; 
Yet  have  I  strayed  (it 's  over,  to  my  joy  !) 
Far  as  the  savage  tribes  of  Illinois ; 
Scarce  had  I  trod  the  threshold  of  the  land, 
When  strong  disgust,  too  potent  to  withstand, 


15 


Drove  me,  distracted  with  commercial  cant, 
And  tap-room  statesmen's  never-ending  rant, 
To  seek  beyond  the  Alleghany's  range 
Some  race  whose  earth  was  not  one  vast  exchange ; 
Some  sacred  scene  where  Nature  was  not  made 
The  drudge  and  slattern  of  usurping  Trade. 
Swift  on  the  wings  of  water  and  of  fire 
I  dashed  through  forests,  to  my  heart's  desire ; 
From  fog  and  snow  to  flowers  and  sunshine  went, 
Surveyed  the  swamps — and  hastened  back  content; 
For,  spite  of  pigs,  the  truth  must  be  confessed, 
Vile  as  this  town  is  —  't  is  the  country's  best ! 
Here,  at  the  least,  our  mother-tongue  is  spoken  ; 
Here  all  the  bell-strings  are  not  always  broken ; 
Here  English  looks  and  English  manners  bear, 
At  times,  the  Briton  back  to  Berkeley-square. 
Here,  too,  my  friend,  some  gentle  spirits  dwell, 
Who  deign  to  know  me  —  even  in  Holt's  hotel. 

They  grossly  err  this  thrifty  race  who  call 
A  youthful  nation ;  —  "  youthful  ?  " —  not  at  all ! 
What  though  some  trace  of  the  barbarian  state 
Betrays  at  times  the  newness  of  their  date  ? 
What  though  their  dwellings  rose  but  yesterday  ? 
The  mind,  the  nature  of  the  land,  is  gray. 
Old  Europe  holds  not  in  its  oldest  nook 
A  race  less  juvenile  in  thought  and  loqk  ; 
There  seems  no  childhood  here,  no  child-like  joy; 
Since  first  I  landed  I  've  not  seen  a  boy ; 
For  all  the  children  in  their  aspect  wear 
The  lines  of  business  and  corrosive  care  ; 


16 


Each  babe,  as  soon  as  babyhood  is  past, 

Is  a  grown  man,  and  withers  just  as  fast. 

O,  my  dear  England !  best  of  lands  !     God  bless  you ! 

Though  taxes,  bishops,  fogs  and  beer,  oppress  you, 

Still,  as  of  old,  a  jocund  little  isle, 

Still  once  a  year,  at  least,  allowed  a  smile ; 

When,  spite  of  virtue,  cakes  and  ale  abound, 

And  laughter  rings,  and  glasses  clink  around  : 

Nor  quite  extinct  is  that  robust  old  race 

(Autumn's  last  roses  blooming  on  their  face), 

Whom,  spite  of  silver  hairs  and  trembling  knees, 

At  Christmas-time  a  pantomime  can  please. 

Ere  yet  my  glance  anatomized  aright 
The  insect  race  that  fluttered  in  my  sight, 
Oft  as  the  mote-like  myriads  of  Broadway 
I  scanned,  their  trim  and  bearing  to  survey, 
Almost  at  each  third  passenger  I  saw, 
Scarce  could  my  lip  repress  a  rising  "pshaw  !  " 
And  oft  this  line  was  running  in  my  brain, 
"  Was  ever  nation  like  Sienna's  vain  !  " 
Surely,  quoth  I,  could  emptiness  and  froth, 
And  the  poor  pride  of  superfinest  cloth, 
Make  more  ridiculous  a  thing  than  these 
Pert,  whiskered,  insolent  Manhattanese? 
But  soon  I  found  how  poor  a  patriot  I,  — 
'T  was  mine  own  countrymen  I  saw  go  by ! 
0,  altered  race !  with  hair  upon  your  chins, 
Spaniards  in  strut  and  Frenchmen  in  your  grins ; 
The  "  snob  "  and  shop-keeper  but  ill  concealed 
By  boots  of  Paris,  bright  and  brazen-heeled, 


17 


Made  up  of  coxcomb,  pugilist  and  sot,  — 
Are  ye  true  Englishmen  ?     I  know  ye  not ! 

With  what  fierce  air,  how  lion-like  a  swell, 

They  pace  the  pavement  of  the  grand  hotel ; 

On  each  new  guest  with  regal  stare  look  down, 

Or  "  strike  him  dead  with  a  victorious  frown  "  .' 

These  are  the  fools  whom  I  for  natives  took, 

Ere  I  could  read  their  nation  in  their  look ; 

Now  wiser  grown,  I  recognize  each  ass 

For  a  true  bit  of  Birmingham's  own  brass. 

Some  are  third  cousins  of  the  penny  press, 

Skilful  a  piquant  paragraph  to  dress ; 

Some  in  their  veins  a  dash  patrician  boast,  — 

Them  Stiiltz  has  banished  from  their  native  coast ; 

There  stalks  a  lecturer,  bearing  in  his  mien 

More  glories  than  he  bought  at  Aberdeen ; 

These  are  tragedians,  —  wandering  stars,  —  and  those 

Manchester  men — deep-read  in  calicos! 

Ye  reverend  gods,  who  guard  the  household  flame  ! 
Lares,  Penates,  —  whatsoe'er  your  name,  — 
What  dire  subversion  of  your  sway  divine 
Lets  loose  all  cockneydom  to  tempt  the  brine  ? 
Why  from  the  counter  and  the  club-room  so 
Flock  the  spruce  trader  and  the  Bond-street  beau  ? 
Why  should  the  lordling  and  the  Marquis  come  ? 
And  many  a  snug  possessor  of  a  plum, 
Quitting  his  burrow  on  the  'Ampstead  road, 
With  wife  and  trunks  be  flying  all  abroad  ? 
Is  it  in  rivers  and  in  rocks  to  find 
Some  new  sensation  for  a  barren  mind  ? 
2 


18 


From  kindred  manners,  doctrines,  men  and  sects, 
To  learn  a  lesson  of  their  own  defects  ? 
Or  with  rapt  eye  on  cataracts  to  look  ? 
No,  their  sole  passion  is  —  to  spawn  a  book. 
Hence  this  poor  land  so  scribbled  o'er  has  been, 
'T  is  like  a  window  in  some  country  inn, 
Where  every  dolt  has  chronicled  his  folly, 
His  fit  of  head-ache  or  of  melancholy  ; 
With  memorandums  of  his  mutton  oft, 
And  how  his  bed  was  hard,  his  butter  soft ; 
How  some  John  Tomson,  on  a  rainy  day, 
Found  naught  to  eat  —  but  very  much  to  pay, 
And  how  said  Tomson  wished  himself  away. 

Oft  at  your  board,  at  that  refined  repast 

Where  London's  lions  break  their  morning  fust, 

To  "  nights  and  suppers  of  the  gods  "  preferring 

Green  tea  and  temperance,  with  a  toast  and  herring ; 

Oft  have  you  said,  perchance  in  jesting  mood, 

You  too  might  venture  o'er  the  foamy  flood  ; 

Might  take  the  whim,  some  sweet  September  day, 

When  scarce  a  cat  in  Portland-place  will  stay ; 

When  all  the  town,  beyond  the  reach  of  duns, 

Is  out  of  town,  with  horses,  dogs  and  guns ; 

To  shut  your  books,  and  take  your  annual  rest 

In  the  green  bosom  of  the  woody  west : 

Where,  by  some  river,  with  an  Indian  name, 

Your  living  ears  might  antedate  your  fame ; 

[n  "  Thebes  "  or  "  Troy  "  your  living  eyes  admire 

Your  plaster  bust  with  laurel  and  with  lyre ; 

See  your  sweet  self,  biography  and  all, 

In  Philadelphia  blazoned  on  a  wall ; 


19 


Or,  cheaply  printed  for  the  southern  trade, 

As  far  as  Arkansas  to  be  conveyed, 

Where  Peck,  the  "  Pindar  of  the  Sucker  State," 

May  call  you,  in  his  classic  way,  "first  rate." 

Charming  !  to  find  in  Geneseo's  vale 

Some  damsel  sighing  o'er  Ginevra's  tale ! 

To  say  the  lines  that  pleased  the  Thames  before 

By  the  wild  music  of  Niagara's  roar, 

And  thus  to  "  Memory's  Pleasures  "  add  one  more. 

Yet,  Nestor,  pause  !  quit  not  your  home  for  this 

Imperfect  picture  of  an  author's  bliss  : 

Let  Dickens  tell  you  how  this  age  of  steam 

Reduces  poesy  to  weight  and  ream, 

Retails  cheap  genius,  brings  the  Muses  down, 

And  turns  Parnassus  to  a  trading  town. 

Yes,  the  fine  flashes  of  instinctive  thought, 

In  silver  lines  and  golden  periods  wrought ; 

In  some  blest  mood  of  happy  Fancy  struck 

From  flinty  Labor,  by  a  touch  of  Luck ; 

The  tender  shoots  that  bourgeon  from  the  brain, 

To  live  and  blossom  on  the  page  again ; 

The  pretty  nurslings  Meditation  rears, 

"Warmed  at  the  hearth-stone  of  the  heart  for  years, 

Soon  as  they  touch  this  equalizing  coast, 

Doff  the  gay  "primer"  and  the  folio-post; 

Dressed  in  a  suit  of  macerated  rags, 

Cast  off  by  Russia's  beggarmen  and  hags, 

On  huckster  stalls  the  darling  dreams  must  lie, 

Tempting  the  pence  from  every  idler  by. 

Ah,  Nestor  !  how  't  would  gall  thee  to  behold 

Perchance  all  "  Italy  "  for  ninepence  sold  ! 


20 


How  would'st  thou  shame  to  recognize  thyself 
To  common  crockery  turned  from  Moxox's  delph ; 
In  mammoth  quartos,  decked  with  wooden  cuts, 
Meanly  displayed  'mid  candies,  cake  and  nuts ; 
Thumbed  by  coarse  hands  that  paw  before  they  choose, 
Whether  a  poem  —  or  a  pair  of  shoes  ! 

0  !  tell  Axacreon,  when  he  cpaits  his  groves 
To  sip  with  you  the  Mocha  that  he  loves, 
That  where  Ohio  wears  the  hues  of  wine, 
From  slaughtered  tribes  of  Cincinnatian  swine, 
Down  by  the  water,  near  the  "  Pork  Depot," 
Where  drays  and  steamboats  roar,  spit,  hiss  and  blow, 
Amid  the  vulgar  sights  that  throng  the  strand, 

1  saw  disconsolate  a  Peri  stand ! 

Hard  by  was  Alcipiiuon,  —  both  pale,  both  lean, — 

While  Paul  de  Kock  profanely  sneaked  between  ; 

Around  lay  many  an  imp  of  modern  song, 

Here  "Lays  of  Home,"  and  here  "Miss  Lucy  Long." 

Lo  !  from  the  wharf  a  rugged  boatman  comes, 

To  pick  a  few  cheap  literary  crumbs ; 

A  greasy,  poor,  but  free,  enlightened  man, 

A  foe  of  kings,  a  plain  republican  : 

With  sapient  eye  he  views  the  lettered  store, 

Spells  the  strange  names,  and  scans  the  pictures  o'er ; 

Nibbling  a  bit  of  this,  a  bit  of  that, 

His  purchase  made,  he  rams  it  in  his  hat ; 

Three-pence  the  freeman  gave  for  one  thin  book, 

Three-pence,  Axackeon,  for  thy  "Lalla  llookh !  " 

Tell  proud  Lociiiel,  when  you  encounter  next, 
How  oft  his  Highland  temper  would  be  vexed 


21 


To  see  that  verse,  whose  labor  made  him  lean, 
Stuck  in  the  chinks  of  some  low  magazine  ; 
Hid,  like  a  Warsaw  palace,  built  'mid  hovels, 
Amid  ten  chapters  of  ten  nauseous  novels  ; 
Robbed  of  the  little  honor  of  a  volume, 
Crammed  in  to  fill  some  paper's  final  column ; 
And  so  perchance  to  have  a  tailor  send 
His  garments  home  in  verse  himself  had  penned  ! 
Or,  worst  of  all,  his  mangled  odes  peruse, 
Trimmed  in  the  fashion  of  the  Bowery  muse ; 
For  each  smart  editor  is  careful  here 
To  clip  his  matter  to  his  reader's  ear  ; 
And  oft,  more  room  to  make  for  better  men, 
Bids  "  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  "  fall  again. 
So  patriotic  managers  are  wont 
To  strike  out  all  that  might  free  ears  affront ; 
And,  heedless  how  their  change  the  measure  mars, 
In  British  plays  lug  in  their  "  stripes  and  stars.' 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  methinks  I  hear  my  Samuel  cry, 

"  With  what  a  low,  derogatory  eye 

You  view  the  beautiful,  primeval  shore 

Where  first-born  forests  guard  the  torrent's  roar  ! 

What !   is  there  nothing  in  that  lovely  land, 

Mid  all  that's  fair,  and  excellent,  and  grand, 

Nothing  more  worthy  of  a  poet's  pen 

Than  sots  and  rogues  and  bastard  Englishmen?" 

Patience,  philosopher  !  as  yet  I  dwell 

In  the  dull  echoes  of  a  tavern-bell ; 

My  inspiration  is  not  born  of  rocks, 

Nor  meads,  nor  mountains  white  with  snowy  flocks  ; 


22 


'T  is  not  Niagara  thrills  me  —  but  the  noise 

Of  drays  and  ferry-boats  and  bawling  boys ; 

And  scarce  the  day  one  quiet  hour  affords 

To  fit  my  fancies  with  harmonious  words ; 

Yet  oft  at  evening,  when  the  moon  is  up, 

When  trees  on  dew  —  and  men  on  slumber  sup, 

Along  the  gas-lit  rampart  of  the  bay, 

In  rhymeful  mood,  as  undisturbed  I  stray, 

Awhile  my  present  "  whereabout "  I  lose, 

And  on  my  loved  ones,  o'er  the  water,  muse. 

Sometimes  lulled  ocean  heaves  an  orient  sigh, 

Which  brings  our  terrace  and  its  roses  nigh ; 

While  each  iEolian  murmur  of  the  sea 

Seems  whispering  fragrantly  of  home  and  thee ; 

But  something  soon  dispels  the  pleasing  dream, 

The  fire-fly's  flash,  the  night-hawk's  whistling  scream, 

Or  katydid,  complaining  in  the  dark, 

Or  other  sound  unheard  in  Regent's  Park. 

For  wheresoe'er  by  night  or  noon  I  tread, 

Thought  guides  me  still,  like  Ariadne's  thread, 

Through  shops  and  crowds  and  placard-pasted  walls, 

Till  on  my  brain  Sleep's  filmy  finger  falls, 

And  cuts  the  filament,  with  gentle  knife, 

That  leads  me  through  this  labyrinth  of  life. 

I  feel  it  now,  — the  power  of  the  dull  god;  — 

The  verse  imperfect  halts  :  Samuel,  I  nod  : 

'T  is  late,  —  o'er  Caurus  hangs  the  northern  car  ! 

My  page  is  out  —  and  so  is  your  cigar. 


EPISTLE  TO   CHARLES  KEMBLE,   LONDON. 

Good  Cassio,  Charles,  Mercutio,  Benedick 
(Of  all  your  names  I  scarce  know  which  to  pick), 
Be  not  alarmed ;  this  comes  not  from  a  dun, 
Nor  any  scheming,  transatlantic  Bcnn, 
Tempting  with  golden  hopes  your  waning  years, 
Like  "  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres," 
Like  Matthews  or  old  Dowton,  to  expose 
The  shank  all  shrunken  from  its  youthful  hose; 
So  boldly  read,  howe'er  it  make  you  sigh,  — 
Nor  manager  nor  creditor  am  I . 

Not  long  ago,  conversing  at  the  Club 
Which  Londoners  with  "  Garrick's  "  title  dub, 
We  both  confessed,  and  each  with  equal  grief, 
That  poor  Melpomene  was  past  relief; 
So  many  symptoms  of  her  dotage  shows 
This  nineteenth  century  of  steam  and  prose. 
Nor  in  herself,  said  you,  entirely  lies 
The  incurable  complaint  whereof  she  dies ; 
T  is  not  alone  that  play-wrights  are  too  poor 
For  gods,  or  men,  or  columns,  to  endure  ;  * 
Nor  that  all  players  in  a  mould  are  cast, 
Every  new  lloscius  aping  still  the  last ; 

*  By  the  word  "  columnae,"  Houace  (though  BrcNTLEr  knew  it  not)  evi- 
dently meant  the  columns  of  the  ltoinan  newspapers. 


24 


Nor  yet  that  taste's  too  delicate  excess 

Demands  perfection  and  despises  less ; 

But  mere  indifference,  that  worst  disease, 

From  bard  and  actor  takes  all  power  to  please. 

How  strive  to  please  ?  when  all  their  friends  that  were 

To  empty  benches  empty  sounds  prefer ; 

And  seek,  like  bees  attracted  by  a  gong, 

The  fairy-land  of  tip-toe  and  of  song  ; 

Whether  a  voice  of  more  than  earthly  strain 

Ee  newly  sent  by  Danube  or  the  Seine, 

Or  some  aerial,  thistle-downy  thing 

Float  from  La  Scala  on  a  zephyr's  wing. 

Say,  might  a  Siddoxs,  conjured  from  the  tomb, 

Again  the  scene  of  her  renown  illume, 

Could  her  high  art  (ay,  even  at  half  price) 

The  crowd  from  "  La  Sonnambula  "  entice  ? 

No ;  dance  and  song,  the  Drama's  deadly  plagues, 

Rubini's  notes,  and  Ellsler's  heavenly  legs,  ■ 

Would  nightly  still  bring  amateurs  in  flocks, 

To  watch  the  "  braves  "  of  the  royal  box. 

While  thus,  between  our  walnuts  and  our  wine, 

We  mourned  with  sighs  your  mistress's  decline, 

You  half  indulged  the  fond  imagination, 

That  what  seemed  death  was  but  her  emigration. 

Perhaps,  quoth  you,  — and  't  was  a  bold  "perhaps,"  — 

Ere  many  years  of  exile  shall  elapse, 

The  wandering  maid  may  find  in  foreign  lands 

More  loving  hearts  and  hospitable  hands. 

Perchance  her  feet,  with  furry  buskins  graced, 

May  shuddering  walk  the  cold  Canadian  waste, 


25 


And  rest  contented  with  a  bleak  repose 
In  shrubless  climes  of  never-thawing  snows. 
Yes,  in  those  woods  that  gird  the  northern  lakes, 
Pathless,  as  yet,  and  wild  with  shaggy  brakes, 
Or  in  the  rank  savannas  of  the  south, 
Or  sea-like  prairies  near  Missouri's  mouth, 
Fate  may  conduct  her  to  some  sacred  spot, 
Where  to  resume  her  sceptre  and  to  —  squat. 
Some  happier  settlement  and  simpler  race, 
Where,  though  her  worship  lack  its  ancient  grace, 
New  days  may  dawn,  like  those  of  royal  Bess, 
And  every  state  its  Avon  shall  possess ; 
Where,  though  in  marshes  resonant  with  frogs, 
And  rudely  housed  in  temples  built  of  logs, 
The  nymph,  regenerate  in  her  classic  robe, 
May  see  revived  the  "  Fortune"  and  the  "  Globe." 

Delightful  dream  !  delightful  as  untrue  ; 
Poor  Drama  !  this  was  no  domain  for  you. 
Here  never  shall  return  that  early  time 
When  the  fresh  heart  can  vulgar  life  sublime, 
And  all  the  prose  of  our  existence  change 
By  magic  power  to  something  rich  and  strange 
Not  here,  among  this  bargain-making  tribe, 
Whose  tricks  the  Muse  would  sicken  to  describe, 
Shall  the  dull  genius  of  a  barren  age 
Bring  an  "  all-hallow'n  summer  "  of  the  Stage. 

Beyond  that  cape  which  mortals  christen  Cod, 
Where  drifted  sand-heaps  choke  the  scanty  sod, 
Hound  the  steep  shore  a  crooked  city  clings, 
Sworn  foe  to  queens,  it  seems,  as  well  as  kings. 


26 


On  three  steep  hills  it  soars,  as  Rome  on  seven, 

To  claim  a  near  relationship  with  heaven. 

Fit  home  for  saints !  the  very  name  it  bears 

A  kind  of  sacred  origin  declares; 

Borrowed,  I  find,  by  hunting  records  o'er, 

From  one  Botolfo,  canonized  of  yore,* 

Whom  bards  have  left  nor  epitaph  nor  verse  on, 

Though  in  his  day,  sans  doubt,  a  decent  person  : 

This  town,  in  olden  times  of  stake  and  flame, 

A  famous  nest  of  Puritans  became  ; 

Sad,  rigid  souls,  who  hated  as  they  ought 

The  carnal  arms  wherewith  the  devil  fought ; 

Dancing  and  dicing,  music,  and  whate'er 

Spreads  for  humanity  the  pleasing  snare. 

Stage-plays,  especially,  their  hearts  abhorred, 

Holding  the  muses  hateful  to  the  Lord, 

Save  when  old  Sterxiiold  and  his  brother  bard 

Oped  their  hoarse  throats,  and  strained  an  anthem  hard. 

From  that  angelic  race  of  perfect  men 
(Sure,  seraphs  never  trod  the  world  till  then  !) 
Descends  the  race  to  whom  the  sway  is  given 
Of  the  world's  morals  by  confiding  Heaven. 
These  of  each  virtue  know  the  market  price, 
And  shrewdly  count  the  cost  of  every  vice ; 
So,  to  their  prudent  adage  faithful  still, 
•  Are  honest  more  from  policy  than  will, 
As  if  with  Heaven  a  bargain  they  had  made 
To  practise  goodness  —  and  to  be  well  paid. 
They  too,  devoutly  as  their  fathers  did, 
Sin,  sack  and  sugar,  equally  forbid ; 

*  The  name  of  Boston,  in  Lincolnshire,  is  said  to  bo  derived   from   Ft. 
Uotolph  —  quasi  BoToi,pn's  town. 


27 


Holding  each  hour  unpardonably  spent 
Which  on  the  ledger  leaves  no  monument ; 
While  oft  they  read,  with  small,  but  pious  wit, 
The  inscription  o'er  the  play-house  portals  writ, 
In  a  bad  sense  —  "  The  entrance  to  the  Pity 

Once  these  Botolphians,  when  their  boards  you  trod, 

Received  you  almost  as  a  demi-god ; 

Rushed  to  the  teeming  rows  in  frantic  swarms, 

And  rained  applauses,  not  in  showers,  but  storms. 

But  should  you  now  their  fickle  welcome  ask, 

Faint  shouts  would  greet  the  veteran  of  the  mask; 

And,  ah  !  what  anguish  would  it  be  to  search 

For  your  old  play-house  in  a  bastard  church ! 

To  find  the  dome  wherein  your  hour  you  strutted 

Altered  and  maimed,  and  circumcised  and  gutted ; 

Become  in  truth,  all  metaphor  to  drop, 

A  mongrel  thing  —  half  chapel  and  half  shop! 

Long  had  the  augur  and  the  priest  foretold 

The  sad  reverse  they  doomed  it  to  behold; 

Long  had  the  school-boy,  as  he  passed  it  by, 

And  maiden,  viewed  it  with  presaging  eye ; 

Oft  had  the  wealthy  deacon  with  a  frown 

Glared  on  the  pile  he  longed  to  batter  down, 

And  reckoned  oft,  with  sanctimonious  air, 

What  rents  't  would  fetch,  if  purified  with  prayer ;  * 

*  At  the  opening  of  tho  "Tremont  Temple,"  in  Boston  (1843),  the  new 
proprietors  chanted  what  they  called  a  "  Purification  Hymn,"  of  which  wo 
give  one  stanza  : 

"  Satan  lias  here  held  empire  Ion}?  — 
A  blighting  curse,  a  cruel  reifni  : 
ISy  mimic  scenes,  and  mirth  anil  song, 
Alluring  souls  to  endless  pain." 


28 


While  through  the  green-room  whispered  rumors  went, 
That  heaven  and  earth  were  on  its  ruin  bent. 

Too  just  a  fear !     The  vision  long  foreseen 
Has  come  at  last ;  behold  the  fallen  queen  ! 
The  queen  of  passion,  stript  of  all  her  pride, 
Discrowned,  indignant  from  her  temple  glide. 
With  draggling  robe,  slip-shod,  her  buskin  loose, 
She  flies  a  sordid  people's  cold  abuse ; 
Summons  her  sister,  who  forbears  to  smile, 
And  leaves  to  rats  the  desecrated  pile, 
Which  dogs  and  nags  already  had  begun, 
Unless  by  blows  and  hunger  driven,  to  shun : 
For  well-bred  curs  and  steeds  genteel  contemn 
A  stage  which  Taste  had  sunk  too  low  for  them ; 
Whereon  the  town  had  seen,  without  remorse, 
A  herd  of  bisons  !  and  a  hairless  horse ! 

Behind  the  two  chief  mourners  of  the  band 
A  sad  procession  follows,  hand  in  hand ; 
Heroes  un-hcroed,  most  unknightly  knights, 
Wand-broken  fairies,  disenchanted  sprites  ; 
Dukes  no  more  ducai,  even  on  the  bill, 
Milk-livered  murderers  too  ill-fed  to  kill ; 
Mild-looking  demons  that  a  babe  might  daunt, 
Witches  and  ghosts  most  naturally  gaunt ; 
Lovers  made  pale  by  keener  pangs  than  love's, 
Unspangled  princesses  with  greasy  gloves; 
Wits  very  witless  —  grave  comedians  mute, 
And  silent  sons  of  violin  and  flute. 

After  these  down-looked  leaders  of  the  show, 
Who  creep,  like  Trajan's  Dacians,  wan  and  slow, 


29 


Comes  a  long  train  of  underlings  that  bear 
Imperial  robes  that  kings  no  more  may  wear ; 
"With  truncheons,  helmets,  thunderbolts  and  casks 
Of  snow  and  lightning  —  bucklers,  foils  and  masks. 

As  toward  the  steep  of  Capitolian  Jove 

When  chiefs  victorious  through  the  rabble  strove, 

With  all  their  conquests  in  their  trophies  told, 

And  every  battle  marked  with  plundered  gold,  — 

When  the  whole  glory  of  the  war  rolled  by, 

And  gaping  Rome  seemed  all  one  mighty  eye,  — 

Behind  the  living  captives  came  the  dead, 

Poor  noseless  gods,  and  some  without  a  head, 

With  pictures,  ivory  images  and  plumes, 

And  priceless  tapestry  from  palace  looms ; 

Even  such,  although  Night's  alchemy  no  more 

The  crinkling  tinsel  turns  to  precious  ore, 

Appears  the  pomp  of  this  discarded  race, 

As  heaped  with  spoil  they  cpiit  their  ancient  place, 

Bearing  their  Lares  with  them  as  they  go  — 

Two  dusty  statues,  and  a  bust  or  so  — 

With  mail  which  once  a  Harry  Fifth  had  on, 

Triumphal  cars  with  all  the  triumph  gone ; 

Goblets  of  tin  mixed  up  with  Yorick's  bones, 

Bags  made  of  togas  —  barrows  formed  of  thrones 

Whereon  the  majesty  of  Denmark  sat; 

Othello's  handkerchief  in  Wolsey's  hat ! 

Swords  hacked  at  Bosworth,  fasces,  guns  and  spears, 

Busted  with  blood  before,  and  now  with  tears. 

Enough  of  this  :  kind  prompter,  touch  the  bell ! 
Children  of  mirth  and  midnight,  fare  ye  well ! 


30 


The  vision  melts  away,  —  the  motley  crowd 

Is  veiled  by  Prospero  in  a  passing  cloud ; 

Like  his  dissolving  pageantry  they  fade, 

The  vapory  stuff  whereof  our  dreams  are  made ; 

No  more  malignant  winter  to  beguile, 

Nor  start  the  maiden's  tear,  the  judge's  smile; 

Save  when  some  annalist,  like  me,  recalls 

The  ancient  fame  of  those  degraded  walls ; 

Or  till  an  age  less  hateful  to  the  Muse 

To  their  old  shape  restore  the  "  anxious  pews  " 


EPISTLE  TO  EDWARD  MOXON,  PUBLISHER,  LONDON. 

The  fiery  bark  that  brought  your  missives  o'er 

Brought  the  sad  news  that  Murray  was  no  more. 

From  Staten  Island,  where  I  chanced  to  stray, 

I  marked  the  monster  puffing  up  the  bay, 

And  guessed  (already  have  I  learned  to  guess), 

From  her  black  look,  she  told  of  some  distress. 

Tidings  of  gloom  her  sable  pennon  spoke, 

And  the  long  train  of  her  funereal  smoke ; 

And  soon  the  bulletins  revealed  the  grief: 

"  John  Murray  's  dead  !  of  booksellers  the  chief!  " 

In  all  the  dread  events  that  Rumor  sends, 

By  flood  and  flame,  to  earth's  remotest  ends ; 

War,  famine,  wreck,  and  all  the  varying  fates 

Of  rising  cottons,  or  of  falling  states  ; 

Revolts  at  home,  and  troubles  o'er  the  seas, 

Among  the  Chartists,  Affghans,  and  Chinese ; 

In  all  the  recent  millions  that  have  gone 

To  the  dark  realm,  and  still  are  hastening  on, 

That  one  small  tradesman  should  have  joined  the  throng 

Seems  a  mean  theme  to  babble  of  in  song. 

Yet,  such  is  Fame !  and  such  the  power  of  books, 

To  make  small  names  as  deathless  as  the  Duke's  : 

Yes,  the  same  volume  that  recordeth  you, 

Ye  mighty  chiefs  !  embalms  the  printer's  too ; 


32 


And  wheresoe'er  the  poet's  fame  hath  flown, 
There,  too,  the  poet's  publisher  is  known  ; 
So  shall  our  friend  enjoy,  to  endless  ages, 
An  immortality  —  of  title-pages. 

Methinks  I  see  the  Scotsman's  canny  ghost 

Near  his  old  threshold,  at  his  ancient  post ; 

Watching  with  eager,  melancholy  face, 

The  pensive  customers  that  throng  the  place ; 

With  anxious  eye  selecting  from  the  throng 

Each  who  has  dabbled  in  this  trick  of  song, 

And  offering,  as  of  yore,  for  something  nice 

In  way  of  epitaph,  the  market  price. 

And  now  his  bones  the  sculptured  slab  lie  under, 

What  generous  bard  will  give  him  one,  I  wonder  ? 

For  all  the  golden  promises  he  made  ; 

For  all  the  golden  guineas  that  he  paid  ; 

For  all  the  fame  his  counter  could  afford 

The  reverend  pamphleteer  and  author-lord  ; 

For  all  the  pleasant  stories  he  retailed ; 

And  all  the  turtle,  when  the  stories  failed  ; 

For  all  the  praises,  all  the  punch  he  spent, 

What  grateful  hand  will  deck  his  monument  ? 

Campbell  's  too  proud  the  compliment  to  grant ; 
Soutiiey  —  for  grave  and  weighty  reasons  —  can't :  * 
Should  Moore  attempt  it,  he  'd  be  sure  to  cram 
John's  many  virtues  in  an  epigram  : 
Rogers'  blank  verse  so  very  blank  has  grown, 
'T  would  scarce  be  legible  on  Parian  stone  : 
Wordsworth  would  mar  it  by  inscribing  on  it 
A  little  sermon  —  what  he  calls  a  sonnet. 

*  Dead. 


33 

Alas  !  for  all  the  guineas  that  he  paid, 
And  all  the  immortalities  he  made, 
For  all  his  venison,  all  his  right  old  wine, 
Will  none  contribute  one  elegiac  line  ? 

In  truth,  I  'm  sad,  although  I  seem  to  laugh, 

To  think  that  John  should  need  an  epitaph.  , 

The  greatest  blows  bring  not  the  truest  tear, 

These  minor  losses  touch  the  heart  more  near ; 

As  fewer  drops  gush  over  from  the  eyes 

When  heroes  fall  than  when  your  valet  dies ; 

They,  of  another,  an  immortal  race, 

Ne'er  seemed  on  earth  well  suited  with  their  place, 

And,  though  they  yield  their  transitory  breath, 

We  know  their  being  but  begins  with  death  : 

When  common  men  —  when  one  like  Murray,  thus 

Is  plucked  by  Death  —  't  is  taking  one  of  us  ; 

And  more  in  his  we  feel  our  own  decay 

Than  if  a  Wellington  were  snatched  away. 

'T  is  not  lost  genius  we  lament  the  most, 

No  ;  but  the  man,  the  old  companion  lost : 

Who  'd  not  give  more  to  bring  back  Gilbert  Gtjrney, 

Or  Smith,  or  Matthews,  from  his  nether  journey, 

Than  all  your  Miltons  or  your  Bacons  dead, 

Or  all  the  Bonapartes  that  ever  bled  ? 

So,  were  the  blue  rotundity  of  heaven 

By  some  muck-running,  outlawed  comet  riven, 

Should  any  orb  —  say  yonder  blazing  Mars  — 

Be  blotted  from  the  muster-roll  of  stars, 

Hersciiel  might  groan,  or  Royal  Airy*  sigh, 

But  what  would  London  care  ?  —  or  you,  or  I  ? 

*  Doctor  Airy,  Astronomer  Royal. 

3 


34 


We  vulgar  folk  might  count  it  greater  loss, 

Should  some  stray  earthquake  swallow  Charing  Cross. 

Now  let  no  pigmy  poet,  in  his  pride, 
The  humble  memory  of  our  friend  deride  : 
More  than  he  dreams,  his  little  species  owe 
Those  good  allies,  the  Patrons  of  the  Row  : 
They,  only  they,  of  all  the  friends  who  praise, 
All  who  forgive,  and  all  who  love  your  lays, 
Of  all  that  flatter,  all  that  wish  you  well, 
Sincerely  care  to  have  your  volume  sell. 
How  oft,  when  Quarterlies  are  most  severe, 
And  every  critic  aims  a  ready  sneer, 
And  young  Ambition  just  begins  to  cool, 
And  Genius  half  suspects  himself  a  fool, 
The  placid  publisher,  the  more  they  rail, 
Forebodes  the  triumph  of  a  speedy  sale, 
And  gently  lays  the  soul-sustaining  balm 
Of  twenty  sovereigns  in  your  trembling  palm  : 
While  more  than  speech  his  manner  seems  to  say, 
As  bland  he  whispers,  "  Dine  with  me  to-day." 

Or,  when  some  doubtful  bantling  of  your  brain, 

Conceived  in  pleasure,  but  achieved  with  pain,  — 

A  bit  of  satire,  or  a  play,  perchance, 

A  fresh,  warm  epic,  or  new-laid  romance,  — 

Receives  from  all  to  whom  your  work  you  show 

Civil  endurance,  or  a  faint  "  so,  so  ;  " 

When  men  of  taste  —  men  always  made  of  ice  — 

Cool  your  gay  fancies  with  a  friend's  advice ; 

And  prudent  fathers,  as  you  read,  conceal 

With  frequent  yawn  the  anger  that  they  feel, 


35 


And  counsel  you  to  cling  to  Coke  and  Chitty, 
And  leave  sweet  girls  to  frame  the  tuneful  ditty, 
How  oft  your  Murray,  with  a  finer  eye, 
Detects  the  gems  that  mid  your  rubbish  lie  ; 
Instructs  you  where  to  alter,  where  to  blot, 
And  how  to  trim  and  patch  your  faulty  plot ; 
Then  bravely  buys,  and  gives  you  to  the  town, 
The  world  —  the  Edinburgh  —  and  your  renown  ! 

And,  0 !  how  oft,  when  some  dyspeptic  swain 
Pours  forth  his  agonies  in  sickly  strain, 
Mistaking,  in  the  pangs  that  through  him  dart, 
A  wretched  liver  for  a  breaking  heart ; 
And  prates  of  passions  that  he  never  felt, 
And  sweats  away  in  vain  attempts  to  melt ; 
Or  takes  to  brandy,  and  converts  his  verse 
From  sad  to  savage,  nay,  begins  to  curse, 
And  raves  of  Nemesis,  and  hate,  and  hell, 
And  smothered  woes  that  in  his  bosom  swell ; 
When  "  Newstead"  is  the  name  his  fancy  gives 
The  snug  dominion  where  he  cheaply  lives, 
And,  aping  still  the  aristocratic  bard, 
With  "  Credo  Jenkins  "  graved  upon  his  card, 
When  with  his  trash  he  hurries  to  the  press, 
Crying  "  0,  print  me  !  print  me  !  "  in  distress, 
Some  bookseller,  perhaps,  most  kindly  cruel, 
Uses  the  dainty  manuscript  for  fuel ! 

But  all  is  ended  now  !  John's  work  is  o'er  : 
He  feasts,  and  pays,  and  publishes,  no  more. 
Henceforth  no  volume,  save  the  Book  of  fate, 
Shall  bear  for  him  an  interest  small  or  great : 


36 


And  if,  in  heaven,  his  literary  soul 

Walk  the  pure  pavement  where  the  planets  roll, 

Few  old  acquaintances  will  greet  him  there, 

Amid  the  radiant  light  and  balmy  air ; 

Since  few  of  all  who  wrote  or  sang  for  him 

Shall  join  the  anthem  of  the  seraphim. 

Yet  there  might  Fancy,  in  a  mood  profane, 

Behold  him  listening  each  celestial  strain, 

Catching  the  cadences  that  sweetly  fall, 

Wondering  if  such  would  sell,  below,  at  all, 

And  calculating,  as  they  say  on  earth, 

How  much. those  heavenly  hymns  would  there  be  worth. 

Or,  if  in  Proserpine's  more  sultry  zone 

For  his  misdeeds  the  Publisher  must  moan, 

Though  much  good  company  about  him  stand, 

And  many  an  author  take  him  by  the  hand. 

And  swarms  of  novelists  around  him  press, 

And  many  a  bard  return  his  warm  caress  ; 

Though  there  on  all  the  sinners  he  shall  gaze 

Who  ever  wrote,  or  planned,  or  acted  plays  ; 

On  all  the  wits,  from  Anna's  time  to  ours, 

Who  strewed  perdition's  pleasant  way  with  flowers  ; 

On  Burns,  consumed  with  more  substantial  fire 

Than  ever  love  or  whiskey  could  inspire  ; 

On  Shellky,  bathing  in  a  lake  of  lead, 

And  Byrox,  stretched  upon  a  lava  bed ; 

Little  shall  he,  or  they,  or  any  there, 

For  magazines  or  morning  journals  care  ; 

Little  shall  there  be  whispered,  or  be  thought, 

About  the  last  new  book,  and  what  it  brought ; 

Little  of  copyright  and  Yankee  thieves, 

Or,  any  wrong  that  Dickens'  bosom  grieves ; 


37 


But,  side  by  side,  reviewer  and  reviewed, 
Critic  and  criticized,  must  all  be  —  stewed  ; 
Alas  !  they  groan  —  alas  !  compared  with  this, 
Even  Blackwood's  drunken  surgery  was  bliss. 
How  less  than  little  were  the  direst  blows 
Dealt  by  brute  Giffoud  on  his  baby  foes  ! 
How  light,  compared  with  hell's  eternal  pain, 
The  small  damnation  was  of  Drury  Lane  ! 

Down  !  down  !  thou  impious,  dark  Imagination, 
Forbear  the  foul,  the  blasphemous  creation  ! 
Whate'er  John's  doom,  in  whatsoever  sphere, 
Wretched  or  blest,  't  is  not  for  us  to  hear. 
Xot  many  such  have  dignified  his  trade, 
So  boldly  bargained  and  so  nobly  paid. 
0,  may  his  own  Divine  Paymaster  prove 
A  Judge  all  mercy  in  the  realms  above  ! 


EPISTLE   TO   WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR. 

On  the  rough  Bracco's  top,  at  break  of  day, 
High  o'er  that  gulf  which  bounds  the  Genoese, 

Since  thou  and  I  pursued  our  mountain  way, 
Twenty  Decembers  have  disrobed  the  trees. 

So  many  summers,  in  their  gay  return, 

Have  found  my  pilgrimage  still  incomplete, 

Doomed  as  I  seem,  Ulysses-like,  to  earn 
My  little  knowledge  by  much  toil  of  feet. 

Charmed  by  the  glowing  earth  and  golden  sky, 
In  Arno's  vale  you  made  yourself  a  nest ; 

There  perched  in  peace  and  bookish  ease,  while  1 
Still  wandered  on  —  and  here  am  in  the  West. 

And  here,  amid  remembrances  that  throng 
Thicker  than  blossoms  in  the  new-born  June, 

Thine  chiefly  claims  the  token  of  a  song 

That  still,  at  least,  my  heart  remains  in  tune. 

But  never  hope  (with  so  refined  a  sense 

Of  what  is  well  conceived  and  ably  wrought) 

To  find  my  verse  retain  its  old  pretence 

To  the  smooth  utterance  of  a  pleasing  thought. 


39 


For  who  can  sing  amid  this  roar  of  streets, 
This  crash  of  engines  and  discordant  mills  ? 

Where  even  in  Solitude's  most  lone  retreat8 
Some  factory  drowns  the  music  of  the  rills  ! 

True,  Nature  here  hath  donned  her  gala  robe, 
Drest  in  all  charms  —  soft,  savage  and  sublime; 

Within  one  realm  enfolding  half  the  globe, 
Flowers  of  all  soils,  and  fruits  of  every  clime. 

But  yet  no  bard,  with  consecrating  touch, 
Hath  made  the  scene  a  nobler  mood  inspire  ; 

The  sullen  Puritan,  the  sensual  Dutch, 

Proved  but  a  barren  fosterage  for  the  lyre  ! 

Imagine  old  (Enotria  as  she  stood 

In  Saturn's  reign,  before  the  stranger  came ; 

Ere  yet  the  stillness  of  the  trackless  wood 
Had  heard  the  echoes  of  a  Trojan's  name. 

Young  Latium  then,  as  now  Missouri's  waste, 
Was  dumb  in  story,  soulless  and  unsung  : 

Whatever  deeds  her  savage  annals  graced 

Died  soon,  for  want  of  some  harmonious  tongue. 

Up  her  dark  streams  the  first  explorers  found 

Only  one  dim,  interminable  shade  ; 
Cliffs  with  the  growth  of  awful  ages  crowned, 

Amid  whose  gloom  the  wolf  and  wild-boar  preyed. 

Afar,  perchance,  on  some  cloud-piercing  height, 
Nigh  the  last  limit  of  the  eagle's  road, 

Some  stray  Pelasgians  had  assumed  a  site 
To  fix  their  proud,  impregnable  abode. 


40 


Pent  in  their  airy  dens,  the  builders  reared 

Turrets  —  fanes  —  altars,  fed  with  daily  flame  — 

But  with  their  walls  their  memory  disappeared  : 
Their  meanest  implements  outlive  their  name  ! 

What  race  of  giants  piled  yon  rocks  so  high  ? 

Who  cut  those  hidden  channels  for  the  rills  ? 
Drained  the  deep  lake,  and  sucked  the  marshes  dry, 

Or  hollowed  into  sepulchres  the  hills  ? 

These,  in  the  time  of  Romulus,  were  old ; 

Even  then,  as  now,  conjecture  could  but  err ; 
In  prose  or  verse  no  chronicler  hath  told 

Whence  the  tribes  came,  and  who  their  heroes  were. 

Their  tombs,  their  sculptures  and  their  funeral  urns, 
Which  still  are  mocked  by  unimproving  Art, 

Perplex  the  mind  —  till  tired  reflection  turns 
To  the  great  people  dearer  to  the  heart. 

Soon  as  they  rose  —  the  Capitolian  lords  — 
The  land  grew  sacred  and  beloved  of  God  ; 

Where'er  they  carried  their  triumphant  swords 
Glory  sprang  forth  and  sanctified  the  sod. 

Nay,  whether  wandering  by  Provincial  Rhone, 
Or  British  Tyne,  we  note  the  Caesar's  tracks, 

Wondering  how  far,  from  their  Tarpeian  flown, 
The  ambitious  eagles  bore  the  praetor's  axe, 

Those  toga'd  Fathers,  those  equestrian  kings, 
Are  still  our  masters  —  still  within  us  reign, 

Born  though  we  may  have  been  beyond  the  springs 
Of  Britain's  floods  —  beyond  the  outer  main. 


41 


For,  while  the  music  of  their  language  lasts, 
They  shall  not  perish  like  the  painted  men  — 

Brief-lived  in  memory  as  the  winter's  blasts !  — 
Who  here  once  held  the  mountain  and  the  glen. 

From  them  and  theirs  with  cold  regard  we  turn, 
The  wreck  of  polished  nations  to  survey, 

Nor  care  the  savage  attributes  to  learn 

Of  souls  that  struggled  with  barbarian  clay. 

With  what  emotion  on  a  coin  we  trace 

Vespasian's  brow,  or  Trajan's  chastened  smile, 

But  view  with  heedless  eye  the  murderous  mace 
And  checkered  lance  of  Zealand's  warrior-isle. 

Here,  by  the  ploughman,  as  with  daily  tread 
He  tracks  the  furrows  of  his  fertile  ground, 

Dark  locks  of  hair,  and  thigh-bones  of  the  dead, 
Spear-heads,  and  skulls,  and  arrows,  oft  are  found. 

On  such  memorials  unconcerned  we  gaze ; 

No  trace  returning  of  the  glow  divine, 
Wherewith,  dear  Walter  !  in  our  Eton  days 

We  eyed  a  fragment  from  the  Palatine. 

It  fired  us  then  to  trace  upon  the  map 

The  forum's  line — proud  empire's  church-yard  paths- 
Ay,  or  to  finger  but  a  marble  scrap 

Or  stucco  piece  from  Diocletian's  baths. 

Cellini's  workmanship  could  nothing  add, 
Nor  any  casket,  rich  with  gems  and  gold, 

To  the  strange  value  every  pebble  had 

O'er  which  perhaps  the  Tiber's  wave  had  rolled. 


42 


A  like  enchantment  all  thy  land  pervades, 

Mellows  the  sunshine  —  softens  autumn's  breeze  — 

O'erhangs  the  mouldering  town,  and  chestnut  shades, 
And  glows  and  sparkles  in  her  storied  seas. 

No  such  a  spell  the  charmed  adventurer  guides 
Who  seeks  those  ruins  hid  in  Yucatan, 

Where  through  the  tropic  forest,  silent,  glides, 
By  crumbled  fane  and  idol,  slow  Copan. 

There,  as  the  weedy  pyramid  he  climbs, 

Or  views,  mid  groves  that  rankly  wave  above, 

The  work  of  nameless  hands  in  unknown  times, 
Much  wakes  his  wonder  —  nothing  stirs  his  love. 

Art's  rude  beginnings,  wheresoever  found, 
The  same  dull  chord  of  feeling  faintly  strike ; 

The  Druid's  pillar,  and  the  Indian  mound, 
And  Uxmal's  monuments,  are  mute  alike. 

Nor  here,  although  the  gorgeous  year  hath  brought 

Crimson  October's  beautiful  decay, 
Can  all  this  loveliness  inspire  a  thought 

Beyond  the  marvels  of  the  fleeting  day. 

For  here  the  Present  overpowers  the  Past ; 

No  recollections  to  these  woods  belong 
(O'er  which  no  minstrelsy  its  veil  hath  cast), 

To  rouse  our  worship,  or  supply  my  song. 

But  this  will  come ;  the  necromancer  Age 
Shall  round  the  wilderness  his  glory  throw ; 

Hudson  shall  murmur  through  the  poet's  page, 
And  in  his  numbers  more  superbly  flow. 


43 


Enough  —  't  is  more  than  midnight  by  the  clock  ; 

Manhattan  dreams  of  dollars,  all  abed  : 
With  you,  dear  Walter,  't  is  the  crow  of  cock, 

And  o'er  Fiesole  the  skies  are  red. 

Good-night !  yet  stay  —  both  longitudes  to  suit, 
Your  own  returning,  and  my  absent  light, 

Thus  let  me  bid  our  mutual  salute ; 

To  you  buon  giorno  —  to  myself  good-night ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ON  A   BUST   OF   DANTE. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng ; 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was  —  but  a  fight ; 

Could  any  Beatrice  sec 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 

To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 

Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumoc's  cavern  close, 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 


48 

Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade  ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 
The  convent's  charity  was  rest.* 

Peace  dwells  not  here  —  this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
lie  used  Home's  harlot  for  his  mirth ; 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

*  It  is  told  of  Dante  that,  when  he  was  roaming  over  Italy,  he  camo  to  a  certain 
monastery,  where  he  was  met  by  one  of  the  friars,  who  blessed  him,  and  asked 
what  was  his  desire;  to  which  the  weary  stranger  simply  answered,  "Pace." 


49 

0,  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now  : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 
His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 
The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 
4 


PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  DANTE: 

PARADISO,   CANTO  XXI. 

The  poet  meets  in  Paradise  the  spirit  of  San  Pietro  Damiano,  a  man  famous, 
in  his  time,  for  the  purity  and  austerity  of  his  life,  and  for  his  endeavors  to  re- 
form the  dissolute  habits  of  the  Romish  clergy  in  that  age,  and  the  pompous 
luxury  of  their  prelates. 

It  is  supposed  that  he  was  born  in  Ravenna,  about  1007.  Having  withdrawn 
from  the  world  into  the  monastery  of  Santa  Croce  di  Fonte  Avellana,  he  was 
called  from  this  retirement  and  employed  in  many  important  missions,  in  which 
he  showed  so  much  ability  that  ho  was  made  Cardinal  and  Bishop  of  Ostia. 
Landino  says  that  he  was  not  merely  called,  but  forcibly  compelled  to  this 
dignity. 

The  subjoined  paraphrase  has  so  little  claim  to  any  exactness,  that  the  thirty 
lines  of  the  original  have  been  amplified  into  ninety.  It  is  hoped  there  may  bo 
found  a  closer  adherence  to  the  spirit  of  the  text  —  and  of  San  Damiano.  That 
the  scholar  may  judge  for  himself,  the  whole  passage  is  appended. 

Betweex  the  Hadrian  and  the  Tyrrhene  shores, 
And  not  far  distant  from  the  Tuscan  line, 

A  jutting  crag  above  the  thunder  soars, 
Cresting  with  ridgy  rocks  the  Apenninc. 

Catria  't  is  called,  and  oft  the  tempest  roars 
Down  in  the  region  of  the  fig  and  vine, 

Tra  duo  liti  d'  Italia  surgon  sassi, 
E  non  molto  distanti  alia  tua  patria, 
Tanto,  chc  i  tuoni  assai  suonan  piu  bassi  ; 

E  fanno  un  gibbo,  che  si  chiama  Catria, 
Disotto  al  quale  e  consecrato  un  ermo, 


51 


While  sunny  Catria  shines  in  cloudless  June ; 

And  at  its  foot  a  consecrated  cell 
From  the  rough  granite  opens,  rudely-hewn, 

A  fit  abode  for  one  who  bids  farewell 
To  life's  harsh  jar,  desiring  to  attune 

His  thoughts  to  heaven,  and  in  seclusion  dwell. 

There,  in  my  peaceful  hermitage,  serene, 
I  with  so  constant  zeal  my  God  obeyed, 

That,  with  continual  fasts  and  vigils  lean, 

Through  summer  heats  and  winter  frosts  I  prayed. 

Clad  in  a  garment  like  my  Saviour's,  mean, 
Of  simple  olives  my  repast  I  made  ; 

And,  on  the  great  hereafter  wholly  bent, 
Weeding  the  garden  of  my  soul  from  sin, 

The  lonely  meditative  hours  I  spent, 
Above  the  busy  world's  distracting  din. 

And  joyous,  in  my  rocky  cloister  pent, 
Abundant  harvests  did  I  gather  in, 

Upon  that  bleak  and  barren  cliff,  to  pour 
Into  the  garners  of  the  Lord  —  alas  ! 

That  sacred  seat  is  hallowed  now  no  more 
By  morning  orisons  or  midnight  mass, 

Or  sandalled  anchorite  that  numbers  o'er 
His  holy  beads  as  the  slow  moments  pass. 

Cho  suol  esser  disposto  a  sola  latria. 

Cosi  ricoininciommi  il  torzo  sernio  ; 
E  poi  continuando  disso  :  quivi 
Al  sorvigio  di  Dio  mi  fei  si  f'ermo 

Che  pur  con  cibi  di  liquor  d'  ulivi 
Lievfinentc  passava  e  caldi  o  giuli, 
Contcnto  iio'  pensior  contcmplativi 


52 


But  now,  sole  occupant,  the  lizard  crawls 
At  noon-day  round  my  desolate  retreat ; 

Nor  ever  sanctified  are  those  rude  walls 
By  the  blest  echoes  of  a  pilgrim's  feet ; 

And  with  a  low,  reproachful  murmur  falls 
The  rill  beside  my  old  accustomed  seat, 

Where,  day  by  day,  at  Avellana's  fount, 

By  men  Pietro  Damiano  named, 
Strict  in  my  stewardship's  exact  account, 

And  through  Romagna  for  my  penance  famed, 
I  sat  and  mused  on  mine  adopted  mount, 

Serving  my  Master  with  a  life  unblamed. 

Ah  !  what  availed  it  that  an  abbey  rose 

With  pillared  pomp  my  modest  rock  to  grace ; 

In  those  cold  aisles  Devotion's  essence  froze, 
Dearer  to  Heaven  was  that  secpiestered  place 

WThich  for  my  chapel  and  my  cave  I  chose, 
Wherein,  recluse,  to  run  my  godly  race. 

But  Honors  came  —  and  Pomp  found  out  my  nest, 

And  like  a  weak  hare  I  was  hunted  down ; 
They  planted  vanities  within  my  breast, 

Render  solea  quel  chiostro  a  questi  cieli 
Fcrtilemente,  ed  ora  e  fatto  vano, 
Si  che  tosto  convien  che  si  riveli. 

In  quel  loco  fu'  io  Pier  Damiano  ; 
E  Pietro  Peccator  fu  nella  casa 
Di  Nostra  Donna  in  sul  lito  Adriano. 

Poca  vita  mortal  m'  era  rimasa, 
Quando  fui  chiesto  e  tratto  a  quel  cappello, 
Che  pur  di  male  in  peggio  si  travasa. 


53 


And  robed  ray  shoulders  with  the  scarlet  gown. 
Then  my  long  days  of  pensiveness  and  rest 
Were  poorly  bartered  for  the  world's  renown. 

To  Rome  they  dragged  me,  and  my  thin  white  hairs 
Were  by  the  Cardinal's  red  hat  concealed ; 

There  the  harsh  lessons  of  my  daily  cares 

Disclosed  new  truths  and  hidden  wrongs  revealed. 

For  soon  I  learned  how  oft  the  priesthood  wears 
Its  reverend  garb  for  Vice  a  mask  and  shield  ; 

I  saw  the  pride,  the  falsehood  of  their  state  ; 

I  saw  the  low,  the  sensual  and  the  vain, 
Implored  for  pardon  and  dispensing  fate  ; 

I  saw  them  fawn  and  flatter,  trick  and  feign ; 
I  saw  their  outwai'd  smiles  and  hidden  hate, 

Their  lust  and  luxury,  and  thirst  for  gain. 

Saint  Peter  barefoot  on  his  mission  came, 

And  Paul,  a  "  chosen  vase,"  in  whom  was  poured 

So  lavishly  the  heavenly  spirit's  flame, 

Snatched  his  chance  meal  at  any  casual  board ; 

And,  reckoning  honest  poverty  no  shame, 
Above  all  wants  in  lofty  virtue  soared. 

Venne  Cephas,  o  venno  il  gran  vasello 
Dcllo  Spirito  Santo,  magri  e  scalzi, 
Prendentlo  il  cibo  di  qualunque  ostello. 

Or  voglion  quinci  c  quindi  chi  rincalzi 
Gli  moderni  pastori,  e  chi  gli  meni, 
Tanto  son  gravi,  o  chi  dirietro  gli  alzi. 

Cuopron  do'  manti  loro  i  palafreni, 
Bi  cho  duo  bestio  van  sott'  una  pello  : 
0  pazienza,  cho  tanto  sosticni  ! 


54 

Oft  in  the  Lateran  I  thought  of  this, 

Amid  the  tinselled  priests'  tumultuous  tread, 

As  on  the  congregations,  bowed  submiss, 
Its  fragrant  shower  the  fuming  censer  shed  ; 

And  some  stooped  low  the  foot  of  him  to  kiss 
Whose  master  "  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

And  when  I  've  seen,  on  some  high  holiday, 

Through  the  live  streets  their  long  processions  roll, 

And  the  fat,  ermined  friars,  on  palfreys  gay,  — 
Both  creatures  covered  with  one  furry  stole,  —  * 

Him  I  remembered,  robed  in  mean  array, 
Who  entered  Zion  on  an  ass's  foal. 

He  like  an  humble  peasant  meekly  rode, 

While  shouted  forth  Jerusalem  a  song, 
And  with  palm-boughs  his  gladsome  pathway  strewed ; 

Our  modern  pastors  need  a  hand  full  strong 
On  either  side  to  prop  their  helpless  load ; 

0,  patience  !  patience  !  that  endur'st  so  long  ! 

*  "  Both  beasts  furred  over  with  a  single  stole,"  or,  "  two  beasts  under  ore 
skin,"  would  be  nearer  to  Dante's  expression  ;  but  the  worthy  Jesuit,  the  Padre 
Venturi,  cries  out  upon  this  —  "  motto  plebeo,  e  da  mercato  vecchio  !  " 


A   PAGE   OF   CONCIIOLOGY. 

What  god  it  was  I  cannot  say, 

But  one  there  was,  when  Jove  was  king, 
Who,  wandering  by  some  Grecian  bay, 

Picked  up  a  vacant  shell  that  lay 
Bleached  on  the  shore,  a  dry,  unsavory  thing. 

Nor  is  my  memory  well  informed 
(Xo  Lempriere  's  at  hand  to  blab) 

What  tenant  had  this  mansion  warmed ; 
Something  with  which  the  iKgean  swarmed, 

Some  lobster,  I  suppose  it  was,  or  crab. 

But  he,  the  cunning  brat  of  heaven, 
Trimmed  it  according  to  his  wish, 

Crossed  it  with  fibres,  —  three,  or  seven, 
Or,  as  Pausanias  thinks,  eleven, — 

And  gave  a  language  to  the  poor,  dead  fish. 

At  once,  the  house,  which,  e'en  when  filled 

By  its  old  habitant,  was  dumb, 
Now,  as  the  immortal  artist  willed, 

A  little  sea-Odcon  trilled, 
And  trembled  low  to  the  celestial  thumb. 


56 


Enraptured  with  his  new  invention, 

Up  soared  he  to  the  blissful  seat, 
And,  having  caught  even  Jove's  attention, 

And  calmed  a  family  dissension, 
Went  serenading  through  the  starry  street. 

With  us,  the  story  's  the  reverse  : 
Our  souls  are  born  already  strung, 

But,  'twixt  the  cradle  and  the  hearse, 

Creeps  a  change  o'er  us  —  for  the  worse ! 

The  heart  hath  music  only  when  't  is  young. 

For  soon  there  comes  a  sordid  god, 

Who  snaps  the  precious  chords  of  sound, 

And  leaves  the  soul  an  empty  pod, 

A  yellow  husk,  —  a  dull,  hard  clod,  — 

A  faded  shell,  in  which  no  voice  is  found. 

Save  when  some  bold,  heroic  hand, 
That  dares  to  strike  the  tyrant,  Time, 

Tries  its  first  impulse  to  command, 

And,  thrilling  through  the  startled  land, 

Wastes  the  last  ebbings  of  his  youth  in  rhyme. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  REPUBLIC: 

WRITTEN   FOR  THE  BOSTON   LYCEUM,  NOVEMBER  19,  1840. 

Already  graced  with  Bravery's  martial  crown, 
Our  young  republic  pants  for  fresh  renown ; 
When  idle  Prowess  finds  no  scene  for  fame, 
Some  loftier  glory  beams,  in  Virtue's  name  ; 
Reposing  Valor  wantons  in  a  trance 
Of  calm  Philosophy,  or  gay  Romance ; 
Refinement  blooms,  and  Wisdom  claims  the  wreath 
Which  silver  hairs,  not  scars,  are  hid  beneath. 
In  every  state,  as  one  heroic  age, 
One  intellectual,  stands  on  history's  page. 
Now  maddening  nations  cpiit  their  tranquil  farms 
To  swell  the  fight  —  a  universe  in  arms  ! 
Now  Strife,  his  work  beginning  to  abhor, 
Bids  tired  Augustus  close  the  gates  of  War ; 
Hushed  is  the  trump  —  a  milder  sway  succeeds, 
Now  peaceful  Georgics  wake  the  Mantuan  reeds. 
Such  days  beheld  the  Stoic  porch  arise, 
With  Acadcmia  —  garden  of  the  wise! 
Then  Epicurus  taught  his  gentle  train 
The  dulcet  musings  of  a  doubtful  brain, 
And  Plato  —  bee-lipped  oracle  ! —  beguiled 
His  loved  Lyceum,  listening  like  a  child. 


58 


Thus  eras  change,  and  such  a  change  is  ours ; 
Rough  Mars  gives  way  to  April's  promised  flowers : 
Forth  springs  the  god-like  intellect,  unchained ; 
Guard  it,  good  angels  !  keep  it  unprofaned ; 
Guide  it,  lest,  lured  by  offices  or  gold, 
Its  rights  be  bartered,  and  its  empire  sold. 
Now  books  accomplish  what  the  sword  began, 
Wide  spreads  the  rule  of  educated  man, 
No  let,  no  limit,  to  its  march  sublime, 
la  space,  but  ocean  —  in  duration,  Time. 
So  swift  its  course,  some  prophet  may  contend 
Its  very  progress  bodes  a  speedy  end : 
No  !  like  Niagara's  changeless  current  driven, 
It  moves,  yet  stays,  eternal  as  the  heaven : 
That  mighty  torrent,  as  it  flows  to-day, 
Forever  flows,  but  never  flows  away ; 
The  waves  you  gazed  at  yesterday  are  gone, 
Yet  the  same  restless  deluge  thunders  on. 

As  crumble  Custom's  mouldering  chains  with  rust, 
Power's  gilded  idol  tumbles  to  the  dust. 
Tradition  totters  from  her  cloudy  throne, 
And  all  the  impostures  of  the  past  are  known. 
Hardly  can  we  lend  credence  to  the  tale 
Of  their  long  woes  who  first  rent  error's  veil : 
What  royal  spite,  what  curses  from  the  Church, 
Awed  the  pale  scholar  in  his  cloistered  search; 
How  many  from  themselves  their  visions  hid, 
Or  wandered  exiles,  outcast  and  forbid, 
Like  Dante,  scaling  with  dejected  tread 
A  tyrant's  stairs,  to  taste  his  bitter  bread! 
Think  how  Columbus  toiled,  through  years  of  pain, 
For  leave  to  try  the  secret  of  the  main ; 


59 


Yet  the  dream  dawned,  and  gave,  in  spite  of  Rome, 
Spain  a  new  world,  and  half  mankind  a  home. 

Unhappy  days  !  when  they  who  read  the  stars 
Oft  only  saw  them  through  their  dungeon  bars  : 
Our  tutored  minds  less  dangerous  ways  explore,  — 
The  immortal  pioneers  have  gone  before. 
As  the  worn  bark,  no  more  to  storms  a  sport, 
Just  makes  the  headland  of  her  opening  port, 
New  perils  then  awake  the  master's  dread, 
Anxious  he  walks,  and  eyes  the  frequent  lead ; 
But,  if  the  pilot  come,  he  yields  the  helm, 
And  stands  a  subject  in  his  floating  realm, 
The  veteran's  nod  his  mariners  obey, 
And  wind  confiding  on  their  shoaly  way. 
Like  them  we  travel,  safely  gliding  by 
Opinion's  thousand  wrecks  that  round  us  lie. 

Not  thus  were  you,  ye  leader  spirits  !  taught 
Your  pathway,  beaconed  through  the  wilds  of  thought 
For  you  no  Newton  yet  had  poised  the  world, 
No  sage  La  Place  heaven's  glittering  leaves  unfurled, 
But  each  suspicion  of  the  truth  was  born 
A  dim  conjecture,  heralding  the  morn. 
Thus  from  his  height  bewildered  Kepler  strayed, 
To  toy  with  vain  Chaldea's  mystic  trade, 
And  sought  in  yon  blue  labyrinth  to  behold 
Man's  life  and  fortunes  lustrously  foretold. 
Hence  Danish  Tycho's  heavenly  city  swarmed 
With  crude  ideas,  and  fantasies  deformed. 
Yet,  sparely  blame  !  nor  be  extreme  to  mark 
Their  faulty  light,  when  all  was  else  —  how  dark! 


60 


But  now  the  Mind,  from  ancient  falsehood  woke, 
Abjures  old  Superstition's  rotten  yoke  : 
No  wrathful  threat  in  Nature's  thunder  fears, 
No  fate  predicted  by  the  falling  spheres. 
All  childish  fables,  Fancy's  fond  pretence, 
Fade  from  the  cold  arithmetic  of  Sense  : 
No  jocund  Fauns  through  copse  or  prairie  rove, 
No  dripping  Naiads  haunt  the  godless  grove ; 
And  had  no  holier  new  Religion  given 
More  certain  tokens  of  a  purer  heaven, 
By  fount,  and  rock,  and  by  the  sounding  shore, 
Nothing  were  left  to  dream  of  and  adore. 

Now  to  Truth's  courts,  a  never-faltering  throng, 
Thy  torch,  0  Science !  lights  and  leads  along. 
No  sluggard  sons  this  age  of  labor  owns, 
In  earth's  great  workshop  solitary  drones, 
But  every  mind  the  general  task  must  share, 
Brave  the  long  toil  and  mingle  in  the  care, 
In  love  with  Knowledge,  that  alone  can  be 
Our  country's  hope  —  sole  safeguard  of  the  free. 
August.  1840. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP. 

Never  hath  navigator  found 

A  nook  where  mortals  have  not  been ; 
The  floods  are  full  —  all  seas  abound 

With  myriads  of  our  kin ; 
And  more  humanity  lies  hidden 

Fathomless  leagues  below  the  surge, 
Than  o'er  its  surface,  tempest-ridden, 

Their  peopled  navies  urge. 

Becalmed  at  midnight,  on  the  deep, 

Soon  as  our  second  watch  was  set, 
On  the  damp  deck  I  dropped  asieep, 

All  troubles  to  forget. 
But  in  my  brain,  that  would  not  slumber, 

Loved  forms  and  lovely  faces  thronged, 
Friends  past  my  power  to  name  or  number, 

And  some  to  heaven  belonged. 

But  one  sweet  shape,  of  beauty  strange, 

Broke  my  bright  vision  with  a  kiss ; 
I  started  —  ah  !  the  bitter  change, 

From  blessed  dreams  to  this  ! 
For,  ah  !  how  silent,  dark,  and  lonely, 

These  melancholy  deserts  are  ; 
No  life,  save  yon  tired  helmsman  only, 

Nor  light,  —  save  here  and  there  a  star. 


62 


The  drowsy  mariner's  dull  tread 

Is  the  sole  sound  that  wakes  mine  ears  ; 
How  hushed  !  how  desolate  and  dead 

Creation's  void  appears ! 
"  Thou  dumb,  thou  lonely,  lonely  ocean  !  " 

Chilled  by  my  fancies,  I  began,  — 
"  Fearful  in  stillness  as  in  motion, 

Thou  art  no  place  for  man  ! 

"  Earth's  wildernesses,  everywhere, 

Teem  with  some  records  of  our  race  ; 
Even  waste  Palenque's  fragments  bear 

Life's  annals  on  their  face. 
But  you,  ye  solitary  waters  ! 

What  memories  can  ye  recall  ? 
Better  to  speak  of  crime  and  slaughters 

Than  tell  no  tale  at  all. 

"  Hark  !  to  that  heavy-breathing  sound, 

That  seems  the  moaning  of  the  sea  : 
Or,  of  some  whale,  on  whose  own  ground 

Bude  trespassers  are  we. 
This  is  Leviathan's  dominion, 

Where  man  is  rash  to  stray  — 
Ah,  might  I  borrow  but  thy  pinion, 

Swift  sea-gull !   for  a  day, 

"This  element,  for  monsters  made, 
Full  swiftly  would  I  leave  behind, 

And  friends  amid  the  forest  shade 
In  gentler  creatures  find." 


63 


Thus  musing,  sleep  again  stole  o'er  me, 
And  voices,  in  my  second  dream, 

Came  from  a  throng  which  rose  before  me  — 
"  How  falsely  dost  thou  deem  ! 

"  Behold  !  thy  brethren  fill  the  waves, 

All  the  great  gulfs  are  amply  stored." 
And,  lo !  from  forth  their  coral  caves 

The  ocean  dwellers  poured. 
"  "We  are  the  people  of  the  waters  !  " 

Faintly  they  gurgled  in  mine  ear  ; 
"  Fathers  and  mothers  —  sons  and  daughters - 

Old  age  and  youth  are  here." 

The  scaly  multitudes  that  swarm 

In  the  green  shelter  of  the  bay, 
Chased  by  the  fury  of  the  storm, 

Less  numerous  were  than  they. 
They  came  in  armies,  thickly  crowding, 

Fleshless  and  dripping,  bleached  and  bare ; 
Sea-plants  their  bony  bosoms  shrouding, 

Sands  glistening  in  their  hair. 

"  See  !  see  !  "  they  cried,  "  what  legions  strew 

The  sparkling  pavement  of  the  brine  ! 
Our  ancient  universe  below 

Is  populous  as  thine. 
But  wheresoe'er  war's  banners  flying 

Have  brought  the  fleets  of  England's  host, 
There,  foe  by  foe,  together  lying, 

Our  nations  cluster  most. 


64 

"  Many  and  large  our  cities  are, 

Wide  scattered  over  ocean's  floor ; 
Some  of  us  dwell  near  Trafalgar, 

And  some  at  Elsinore. 
Some  that  were  enemies,  now  brothers, 

Linger  about  the  immortal  isle 
Of  Grecian  Salamis,  —  and  others 

Rest  in  the  freshness  of  the  Nile." 

"  Home !  home !  poor  spectres,"  I  replied, 

"  Till  the  seas  dry  at  trump  of  doom  ; 
Earth  and  her  waters  —  far  and  wide  — 

Are  only  one  huge  tomb. 
Till  now  I  thought  the  main's  chief  treasure 

Was  pearls  and  heaps  of  jewels  rare; 
But,  ah  !  what  wealth,  beyond  all  measure, 

In  mine  own  shape  lies  there  !  " 

Then,  musing  on  the  valor,  worth, 

And  beauty,  dwelling  in  the  deep, 
And  the  mean  brood  that  God's  good  earth 

In  their  possession  keep, 
I  almost  wished  my  parting  minute 

Might  find  me  somewhere  on  the  wave, 
That  I  might  join  the  brave  within  it, 

And  no  man  dig  my  grave. 


THKENODIA. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  HARRISON. 
Spoken  by  Mr.  Vandenhoff,  the  elder,  at  the  Tremont  Theatre,  April  13, 1841. 

Stunned  is  the  nation  with  a  troublous  knell ! 

The  pulse  of  triumph  had  not  all  grown  calm : 
But  the  shouts  are  hushed  —  and  the  trumpet  swell  * 
For  the  sudden  sound  of  a  passing  bell 

Hath  changed  our  pa)an  to  a  funeral  psalm ! 

Scarce  had  the  note  of  our  rejoicing  woke 
The  wilds  of  Oregon,  —  and  now  a  wail 
Through  the  forest  comes,  and  the  dulling  stroke 
Of  the  muffled  drum,  and  the  volleyed  smoke 
And  roar  of  cannon,  blend  with  April's  gale. 

Beyond  Missouri's  farthest-rising  springs, 

The  wandering  tribes  shall  catch  the  mingled  tone, 
And  be  dumb,  in  listening  the  tale  it  brings, 
How  the  father-chief  of  their  prairie  kings 

To  the  Great  Spirit's  council-watch  hath  gone  ! 

Fell  not  our  chieftain  as  a  soldier  ought  ? 

'T  was  Victory's  voice  that  whispered  him  to  rest ; 
And  of  all  the  garlands  his  virtues  brought, 
'T  is  the  last  shall  dwell  in  his  country's  thought, 

Longer  than  all  his  Lcuctras*  in  the  West. 

5  *  Epaininondas. 


66 


In  Glory's  field  full  many  a  laurel  grows 

For  him,  —  but  conquest  yields  no  equal  crown 
To  the  civic  wreath  which  a  land  bestows 
On  the  veteran  head,  where  the  sacred  snows, 
Printed  with  goodness,  cover  past  renown. 

Sum  then  his  fortunes  by  the  final  day, 

And  count  him  blest;  —  Napoleon  might  have  given 
Marengo's  fame,  to  have  passed  away 
"With  as  peaceful  a  sigh  from  his  hold  of  clay, 

With  no  man's  curse  to  hinder  him  from  heaven. 


TO  A  "MAGDALEN." 

A   PAINTING   BY   GUIDO. 
I. 

Mary,  when  thou  wert  a  virgin, 

Ere  the  first,  the  fatal  sin 
Stole  into  thy  bosom's  chamber, 

Leading  six  companions  in  ? 
Ere  those  eyes  had  wept  an  error, 

"What  thy  beauty  must  have  been ! 

ii. 

Ere  those  lips  had  paled  their  crimson, 
Quivering  with  the  soul's  despair, 

Ere  the  smile  they  wore  had  withered 
In  thine  agony  of  prayer, 

Or,  instead  of  pearls,  the  tear-drops 
Gleamed  amid  thy  streaming  hair. 

in. 
While,  in  ignorance  of  evil, 

Still  thy  heart  serenely  dreamed, 
And  the  morning  light  of  girlhood 

On  thy  cheeks'  young  garden  beamed, 
Where  the  abundant  rose  was  blushing, 

Not  of  earth  couldst  thou  have  seemed  ! 


68 


IV. 


When  thy  frailty  fell  upon  thee, 
Lovely  wert  thou,  even  then  ; 

Shame  itself  could  scarce  disarm  thee 
Of  the  charms  that  vanquished  men ; 

Which  of  Salem's  purest  daughters 
Matched  the  sullied  Magdalen  ? 

v. 

But  thy  Master's  eye  beheld  thee, 
Foul  and  all  unworthy  heaven ; 

Pitied,  pardoned,  purged  thy  spirit 
Of  its  black,  pernicious  leaven  ; 

Drove,  the  devils  from  out  the  temple, 
All  the  dark,  the  guilty  seven.*5 

VI. 

0,  the  beauty  of  repentance  ! 

Mary,  ten-fold  fairer  now 
Art  thou  with  dishevelled  tresses, 

And  that  anguish  on  thy  brow ; 
Ah,  might  every  sinful  sister 

Grow  in  beauty,  ev'n  as  thou ! 

"  Mary,  from  whom  were  cast  seven  devils." 


LIVORNO. 

Where  Srnollet  sleeps,  in  Leghorn,  there  is  buried, 
Amid  the  graves  of  many  English  strangers, 
One  of  our  countrymen,  —  a  nameless  being,  — 
Whose  mound  is  only  marked  by  one  blank  slab, 
Half-hid  in  hyacinths,  that  bloom  unbidden 
Beneath  the  tread  of  every  idler's  foot. 

His  home  and  cradle  was  the  Hampshire  hills, 
Further  than  Britain,  more  remote  than  Thule, 
Where  the  blue  Merrimac's  first  fountain  springs. 
There  had  he  wandered,  in  his  early  days, 
By  rock  and  brook,  with  Fancy  for  his  playmate, 
Full  of  the  world  that  learning  had  unlocked. 
His  brain  was  peopled  with  departed  heroes,  — 
Troy's  roving  emigrants,  the  Latian  sires, 
The  men  of  history  and  the  gods  of  Greece. 
The  master  minds  whose  mighty  phantoms  walk 
In  academic  halls,  or  volumed  lie 
In  close  companionship  on  college  shelves, 
Where  in  the  dust  rich  thoughts  like  jewels  hide, 
Had  warmed  him  into  worship  of  the  past. 
His  heart  was  written  o'er,  like  some  stray  page 
Torn  out  from  Plutarch,  with  majestic  names  ; 
People  and  places  of  antique  renown  ; 


70 


Founders  of  kingdoms,  consuls,  orators, 
And  chiefs  who  swell  the  chronicles  of  Rome. 
With  these  he  lived,  almost  himself  a  Roman ; 
Wearing  his  camlet  as  it  were  a  toga, 
Thinking  in  Latin,  absent  in  his  answers, 
Heedless  of  what  was  round  him,  and  belonging 
Rather  to  Tully's  period  than  his  own. 
Where'er  he  wandered,  —  whether  to  the  shore, 
Or  mid  the  new-built  nests  of  busy  Thrift, 
Springing  as  Thebes  did  at  Amphion's  playing, 
To  the  dull  drone  of  inharmonious  mills,  — 
Where'er  chance  led  him,  he  transformed  the  scene, 
Giving  Soracte's  name  to  Kearsarge, 
And  styling  "  preceps  Anio  "  that  which  men 
Gall  Amonoosac  in  the  vulgar  diction. 

But  Fancy  rests  not  long  content  with  fancies ; 
If  so,  no  marriages  would  spring  from  sonnets  ; 
Ambition,  satisfied  with  smoke,  would  loll, 
Pleased  with  his  pipe,  upon  a  silken  sofa  ; 
And  all  the  restless  multitude  who  fly, 
Canvas  or  vapor-winged,  beyond  the  seas, 
In  quest  of  ruins,  pictures  and  warm  winters, 
Would  lie  abed  and  gaze  on  Europe's  chart, 
Travelling  more  snugly  on  their  chamber  wainscot. 
Prudent  arc  they  who  never  stir  from  home, 
Save  in  conception ;  who  beside  their  fire 
Securely  wander,  only  in  a  book, 
And  find  adventures  in  another's  rambles. 
To  such  a  modest  wisher  't  were  enough  , 

To  hear  of  music,  and  to  smell  a  feast, 
To  talk  by  letter  merely,  with  a  sweetheart, 
And  only  worship  beauty's  marble  image. 


71 


Such  airy  diet  suited  not  the  taste 

Of  him  I  speak  of;  hungry  was  his  heart 

For  the  reality  ofall  the  dreams 

Which  fed  his  boyhood ;  —  how  he  longed  to  see 

Italy's  earth !  the  actual  stones  of  Rome ; 

To  touch  the  Capitol,  and  with  proud  foot 

Tread  the  same  pavement  Cicero  had  walked  on  ! 

This  was  his  one  desire ;  for  this  he  dimmed 

His  watchful  eyes  with  midnight  occupations, 

Thinning  his  tresses  with  consuming  studies, 

And  drying  up  with  toil  the  sap  of  youth, 

Which  gathers  most,  like  dew-drops,  in  the  night, 

When  slumber  comes  like  evening  to  the  roses. 

Little  by  little,  had  he  won  the  means 

Whereby  men  master  fortune ;  power  was  his 

To  make  the  earth  his  turnpike,  every  gate 

Readily  opening  to  the  magic  toll 

Which  wise  men  bear  like  amulets  about  them, 

To  charm  away  that  worst  disorder  —  want. 

Then  came  the  time  of  Love,  —  the  common  story, 
Fair  was  the  lady ;  ye,  whose  road  has  led  you 
Amid  the  western  valleys  of  New  England 
By  Housatonic,  you  may  guess  how  fair. 
She,  too,  had  learned,  and  partly  caught  of  him, 
That  adoration  of  the  antique  world, 
Which  many  thousand  miles  of  briny  distance 
Hallow  in  thought  as  potently  as  Time. 
Oft  would  she  listen,  as  they  sat  by  night, 
Watching  the  fireflies,  to  the  brave  description 
Of  those  unnumbered  lights  which,  every  Easter, 
Kindle  St.  Peter's  cupola,  while  Heaven 
Withholds  its  stars,  as  fearing  to  be  shamed 


72 


By  the  gay  glory  of  the  girandole ! 

And  oft  when  walking  in  the  village  church-yard, 

Among  the  mounds  where  humble  farmers  rested, 

He  told  her  of  Metella's  tomb,  and  Virgil's, 

The  Scipios'  vault  with  those  which  line  the  Appian, 

And  that  graj|  pyramid  within  whose  shade 

Sleeps  the  Septemvir  with  his  English  guests, 

■Cestius  and  Shelley  and  —  0,  Friend!  thou  knowest, — 

Or  if  they  looked  from  Holyoke  o'er  the  meadows, 

He  took  her  with  him,  on  the  wings  of  thought, 

To  green  Campania,  showed  her  sunny  Naples, 

Stretched  out  like  one  of  her  own  lazzaroni, 

In  smiling  indolence,  along  the  shore ; 

Your  villas,  Bane  !  thy  dumb  temples,  Paestum  ! 

Where  meditation  makes  the  only  worship ; 

Vineyards  whose  juices,  drawn  from  buried  cities, 

Taste  of  the  times  of  Flaccus  and  Tibullus, 

And  whirl  the  memory  twenty  centuries  back. 

Happy !  yes,  happier  than  they  knew  they  were, 
These  lovers  thus  indulged  their  dreams  together, 
More  blest  for  knowing  not  that  this  was  bliss. 
The  days  we  spend  unconscious  of  delight 
Are  those  which  most  delight  us  in  remembrance, 
And  the  sweet  minutes  which  are  spent  in  hope 
Make  hope's  accomplishment  a  dull  content. 

Two  drops  that  meet  and  make  a  single  drop 
Mingle  not  more  instinctively  than  souls 
Thus  brought  together,  side  by  side,  as  't  were, 
On  the  same  stem  and  leaf  of  our  existence. 
Scarce  were  their  bridal  holidays  well  o'er, 
When  the  great  Wish  which  many  years  had  nourished, 
The  golden  frame-work  of  such  goodly  pictures, 


73 


Approached  completion.     Look  !  a  ship  is  ready ; 
Her  canvas  full-fed  with  the  generous  wind, 
Whose  course  is  destined  for  the  rocky  gate 
Of  that  famed  sea  whose  legendary  name, 
"  Mediterranean,"  breathes  of  history. 
And  they  are  in  that  vessel  ;  —  farewell,  home  ! 
Farewell,  America !  with  all  thy  names, 
Which  sound  unused  and  dissonant  in  song, 
Yet  no  less  precious  to  the  heart  for  that. 
AVe  're  for  the  land  whose  daily  talk  is  music  ; 
We  're  bound  for  Italy,  our  port  is  Naples ; 
Dulcet  Parthenope  !  Torquato's  cradle, 
And  Maro's  resting-place  ;  amid  such  words, 
How  hard  in  verse  to  say,  Farewell,  New  York  ' 

So  sink  the  hills  of  Neversink  behind  them, 
And  the  New  World  is  but  a  thing  to  talk  of: 
And  life  no  longer  is  a  stated  task 
To  be  encountered  and  performed  for  wages  ; 
But  the  free  kisses  of  the  laughing  ocean 
Seem  to  invite  the  madly-bounding  prow 
To  leap  and  dance  on  the  deep's  foamy  floor, 
To  the  glad  tunes  of  the  resounding  billows. 
The  mariners,  't  would  seem,  were  following  sinmly 
Their  inclination  rather  than  their  calling ; 
The  chains  of  Drudgery  seemed  to  drop  away, 
And  life's  main  duty,  merely  life  and  motion. 
Careless  existence  !  how  the  occupations, 
Troubles  and  fretful  interests  of  the  shore, 
With  the  shore  vanish  !     Earth  is  only  earthly 
To  the  dull  souls  that  burrow  on  the  land. 
Such  was  their  ecstasy  at  first,  but  soon 
The  rapture  lessened,  and  with  every  sun 


74 


The  strand  they  sailed  from  dearer  grew  and  fairer, 

And  that  whereto  each  billow  brought  them  nearer 

Lost  the  fine  surface  of  the  bright  romance 

Whose  brilliancy  is  born  of  distance  only ; 

So  to  the  greedy  Spaniards  in  Peru 

The  rocks  of  lime  on  Illiassa's  height, 

Beheld  afar,  seemed  hills  of  purest  silver  ; 

And  the  brown  husks  which  roofed  the  Indian  huts 

Solid  and  beaten  plates  of  virgin  gold ; 

Nay,  this  dim  ball,  this  murky  lump,  this  earth, 

Seen  from  yon  Venus,  were  as  bright  as  she. 


THE  GROOMSMAN  TO   HIS  MISTRESS. 

i. 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  another,  soon  or  late ; 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 
Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 


Blessings  then  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites'  permission, 
To  himself  his  mistress  took, 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

in. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 
Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride, 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 


76 

IV. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her ; 

One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair, 
But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 
Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 

Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

v. 
While  her  groomsman  —  shall  I  own  it  ? 

Yes,  to  thee,  and  only  thee  — 
Gazed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 
Thus  he  thought :  "  How  blest  the  bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she !  " 

VI. 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 
Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  I  wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text, 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

VII. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 

For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 

Thine  perchance,  my  dearest  lady, 
Or,  who  knows  ?  —  it  may  be  mine  : 

What  if  't  were  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What  if  't  were  —  both  mine  and  thine  ? 


CAMPANILE  DI  PISA. 

Snow  was  glistening  on  the  mountains,  but  the  air  was  that  of  June, 
Leaves  were  falling,  but  the  runnels  playing  still  their  summer  tune, 
And  the  dial's  lazy  shadow  hovered  nigh  the  brink  of  noon. 
On  the  benches  in  the  market  rows  of  languid  idlers  lay, 
When  to  Pisa's  nodding  belfry,  with  a  friend,  I  took  my  way. 

From  the  top  we  looked  around  us,  and  as  far  as  eye  might  strain, 
Saw  no  sign  of  life  or  motion,  in  the  town,  or  on  the  plain  ; 
Hardly  seemed  the  river  moving,  through  the  willows  to  the  main ; 
Nor  was  any  noise  disturbing  Pisa  from  her  drowsy  hour, 
Save  the  doves  that  fluttered  'neath  us,  in  and  out,  and  round  the 
tower. 

Not  a  shout  from  gladsome  children,  or  the  clatter  of  a  wheel, 

Nor  the  spinner  of  the  suburb  winding  his  discordant  reel, 

Nor  the  stroke  upon  the  pavement  of  a  hoof  or  of  a  heel : 

Even  the  slumberers,  in  the  church-yard  of  the  Campo  Santo,  seemed 

Scarce  more  opuict  than  the  living  world  that  undcrncatli  us  dreamed. 

Dozing  at  the  city's  portal,  heedless  guard  the  sentry  kept, 
More  than  oriental  dulness  o'er  the  sunny  farms  had  crept, 
Near  the  walls  the  ducal  herdsman  by  the  dusty  road-side  slept ; 


78 

While  his  camels,*  resting  round  him,  half  alarmed  the  sullen  ox, 
Seeing  those  Arabian  monsters  pasturing  with  Etruria's  flocks. 

Then  it  was,  like  one  who  wandered,  lately,  singing  by  the  Rhine, 
Strains!  perchance  to  maiden's  hearing  sweeter  than  this  verse  of 

mine, 
That  we  bade  Imagination  lift  us  on  her  wing  divine. 
And  the  days  of  Pisa's  greatness  rose  from  the  sepulchral  past, 
When  a  thousand  conquering  galleys  bore  her  standard  at  the  mast. 

Memory  for  a  moment  crowned  her  sovereign  mistress  of  the  seas, 
When  she  braved,  upon  the  billows,  Venice  and  the  Genoese, 
Daring  to  deride  the  Pontiff,  though  he  shook  his  angry  keys. 
When  her  admirals  triumphant,  riding  o'er  the  Soldan's  waves, 
Brought  from  Calvary's  holy  mountain  fitting  soil  for  knightly  graves. 

When  the  Saracen  surrendered,  one  by  one,  his  pirate  isles, 
And  Ionia's  marble  trophies  decked  Lungarno's  Gothic  piles, 
Where  the  festal  music  floated  in  the  light  of  ladies'  smiles ; 
Soldiers  in  the  busy  court-yard,  nobles  in  the  halls  above  — 
0!  those  days  of  arms  are  over  —  arms  and  courtesy  and  love ! 

Down  in  yonder  square  at  sunrise,  lo  !  the  Tuscan  troops  arrayed, 
Every  man  in  Milan  armor,  forged  in  Brescia  every  blade  : 
Sigismondi  is  their  captain  —  Florence !  art  thou  not  dismayed  ? 

*  Near  Pisa,  a  herd  of  camels  is  kept,  upon  a  farm  belonging  to  the  Grand 
Duke.  The  ancestors  of  these  animals  were  brought  thither  during  the  crusades. 
Some  of  them  are  employed  in  the  work  of  tho  farm,  and  others  may  be  met 
straying  about  in  the  pino  woods  or  along  tho  sands  of  tho  coast. 

"  These  sands,  with  tho  sea,  tho  camels,  tho  purity  and  brightness  of  tho  sky, 
the  solitudo  and  silence,  give  this  picture  something  oriental,  novel  and  poet- 
ical, which  pleases  tho  fancy,  and  transports  it  to  the  desert." — Valery. 

t  The  Belfry  of  Bruges. 


79 

There  's  Lanfranchi !  there  the  bravest  of  the  Gherardesca  stem, 
Hugolino  —  with  the  bishop  —  but  enough  —  enough  of  them. 

Now,  as  on  Achilles'  buckler,  next  a  peaceful  scene  succeeds ; 
Pious  crowds  in  the  cathedral  duly  tell  their  blessed  beads ; 
Students  walk  the  learned  cloister — Ariosto  wakes  the  reeds  — 
Science  dawns — and  Galileo  teaches  now  the  Italian  youth, 
As  he  were  a  new  Columbus,  new  discovered  realms  of  truth. 

Ilark !  what  murmurs  from  the  million  in  the  bustling  market  rise ! 

All  the  lanes  are  loud  with  voices,  all  the  windows  dark  with  eyes ; 

Black  with  men  the  marble  bridges,  heaped  the  shores  with  mer- 
chandise ; 

Turks  and  Greeks  and  Libyan  merchants  in  the  square  their  councils 
hold, 

And  the  Christian  altars  glitter,  gorgeous  with  Byzantine  gold  ! 

Look !  anon  the  masqueraders  don  their  holiday  attire ; 
Every  palace  is  illumined  —  all  the  town  seems  built  of  fire  — 
Rainbow-colored  lanterns  dangle  from  the  top  of  every  spire : 
Pisa's  patron  saint  hath  hallowed  to  himself  the  joyful  day, 
Never  on  the  thronged  Rialto  showed  the  Carnival  more  gay. 

Suddenly  the  bell  beneath  us  broke  the  vision  with  its  chime ; 
"  Signors,"  quoth  our  gray  attendant,  "  it  is  almost  vesper  time  ;  " 
Vulgar  life  resumed  its  empire  —  down  we  dropt  from  the  sublime. 
Here  and  there  a  friar  passed  us,  as  we  paced  the  silent  streets, 
And  a  cardinal's  rumbling  carriage  roused  the  sleepers  from  the  seats. 


SAINT  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 

This  day  was  sacred,  once,  to  Pan, 
And  kept  with  song  and  wine  ; 

But  when  our  better  creed  began 
'T  was  held  no  more  divine, 

Until  there  came  a  holy  man, 
One  Bishop  Valentine. 

He,  finding,  as  all  good  men  will, 

Much  in  the  ancient  way 
That  was  not  altogether  ill, 

Restored  the  genial  day, 
And  we  the  pagan  fashion  still 

With  pious  hearts  obey. 

Without  this  custom,  all  would  go 

Amiss  in  Love's  affairs, 
All  passion  would  be  poor  dumb  show, 

Pent  sighs,  and  secret  prayers ; 
And  bashful  maids  would  never  know 

What  timid  swain  was  theirs. 

Ah  !  many  things  with  mickle  pains 

Without  reward  are  done, 
A  thousand  poets  rack  their  brains 

For  her  who  loves  but  one  ; 


81 

Yea,  many  weary  with  their  strains 
The  nymph  that  cares  for  none. 

Yet,  should  no  faithful  heart  be  faint 

To  give  affection's  sign  : 
So,  dearest,  let  mine  own  acquaint 

With  its  emotions  —  thine  ; 
And  blessings  on  that  fine  old  Saint, 

Good  Bishop  Valentine  ! 
6 


A  SARATOGA  ECLOGUE. 


MELIBCEUS. 


While  you,  my  Tityrls,  beneath  the  shade 
■Of  Congress  Hall's  pine-pillared  colonnade, 
Suck  in  the  sweet  oblivion  of  your  smoke, 
Ejecting  now  a  puff  and  now  a  joke, 
Say,  will  not  Fancy,  spite  of  your  cigar, 
And  all  the  strong  nepenthes  of  the  bar, 
At  times  fly  back  from  woods  and  country  air 
To  busy  Broad-street,  and  the  warehouse  there  ? 


0,  Melibceus,  think  not  for  myself 

I  laid  my  ledger  on  the  guarded  shelf, 

Locked  my  big  safe,  and  bade  my  clerks  disperse 

To  fish  for  trout,  shoot  bears,  or  scribble  verse : 

Bushes  and  groves  are  dismal  sights  to  me  ; 

I  love  a  lamp-post  better  than  a  tree, 

Save  those  that  grow  by  gas-light,  in  the  Park, 

With  play-bill  aprons  on  their  decent  bark  ; 

Nor  know  I  any  verdure  like  the  greens 

In  Fulton  market  —  curse  your  sylvan  scenes  ! 

Small  wish  had  I  to  taste  this  rustic  life ; 

No,  Melibceus.  't  was  to  nlease  vay  wife. 


Then  disappointment  is  your  just  reward  : 
I  have  a  wife,  but  I  am  sovereign  lord ; 
Right  well  she  knows,  the  woman  being  wise, 
In  me  alone  the  choice  of  journey  lies ; 
Lamb-like  she  follows,  to  the  Springs  or  Falls  — 
Where'er  my  whim  or  my  dyspepsia  calls. 
Ass  that  I  was  !  about  the  end  of  June 
I  found  my  bowels  getting  out  of  tune  ; 
Naught  but  these  waters,  my  physician  said, 
Could  quell  the  bile,  or  calm  the  throbbing  head  : 
Quick  to  anticipate  the  coming  swarm 
That  take  the  country  every  year  by  storm,  — 
Rushing  like  haggard  shadows  to  the  Styx, 
Or  greedy  bisons  to  the  briny  licks,  — 
Hither  I  sped,  and,  raptured  with  the  spot, 
Hired  half  an  acre,  with  a  cow  and  cot. 
Mine  was  the  blunder,  mine  is  the  regret ; 
And  mine,  beside,  the  same  dyspepsia  yet ; 
And  more  it  vexes  me  that  here  I  came, 
Having  no  wife,  like  you,  to  share  the  blame. 


I  blame  not  mine ;  I  only  told  you  why 
I  fled  from  town ;  a  gentler  husband  I. 
I  let  my  love  in  minor  matters  rule  ; 
She  where  she  pleaseth  sends  the  girls  to  school 
She  orders  dinner ;  she  decides  what  sect 
Shall  number  us  among  its  pure  elect ; 
Whate'er  her  taste,  secure  of  suiting  me, 
Venison  or  duck,  one  deity  or  three. 


84 


When  dog-days  came,  she  fancied  these  famed  waters 
Would  benefit  her  spirits  and  my  daughters ; 
Thrice  every  day  the  sluggish  pool  they  drink, 
Six  tingling  tumblers,  down  without  a  wink  ! 
But  I  confess  that  simple  Croton's  flood, 
Though  it  give  no  magnesia  to  the  blood, 
More  suits  my  liking 

MELIBCEUS. 

Ay,  with  something  in  't,  — 
A  scrap  of  lemon,  or  a  sprig  of  mint. 

TITTRUS. 

And  as  for  air,  what  air  can  equal  ours  ? 
Do  you  admire  the  sweetness  of  the  flowers  ? 


Not  I :  these  breezes  are  but  pap  to  me  ; 
I  love  the  ham-like  relish  of  the  sea. 


Our  nostrils  here  how  little  flavor  greets, 
Compared  with  all  the  spiciness  of  streets  ! 
The  thousand  odors  from  ambrosial  shops, 
To  catch  whose  balm  the  rustic  stranger  stops ; 
Barrows  of  pine-apples,  and  trays  of  tarts, 
The  breath  of  new-born  loaves  from  baker's  carts ; 
The  steams  oft  gushing,  as  your  head  you  droop, 
Up  from  some  subterranean  realm  of  soup. 


The  pleasant  whiffs  of  terrapin,  —  the  smell 
Of  oyster-shops,  —  I  also  know  them  well ; 


85 


Well  you  recall  them  to  my  mental  nose ; 
Ah  !  could  art  graft  such  odors  on  a  rose ! 
Or,  0  !  that  any  flower,  tree,  shrub,  or  grass, 
Might  imitate  the  perfume  of  the  gas  ! 


0,  balmy  gas !  that  might  almost  persuade 
A  wood-born  Dryad  to  forswear  the  shade, 
How  much  of  happiness  its  name  recalls  ! 
Club-rooms,  and  reading-rooms,  and  social  halls ; 
Concerts  and  theatres,  and  midnight  cells, 
Where  blushing  lobsters  doff  their  bashful  shells, 
And  Liebfraumilch  —  right  worthy  of  its  name  !  — 
Glides,  like  the  milk  of  kindness,  through  your  frame. 

MELIBCECS. 

In  my  young  days,  ere  steam  with  magic  leap 

Had,  by  abridging,  almost  bridged  the  deep, 

I  crossed  the  seas,  and,  wandering  Europe  through, 

With  each  great  city  so  familiar  grew, 

That,  were  I  blindfold  travelling,  I  could  tell 

My  whereabout  correctly,  by  the  smell. 

From  that  long  pilgrimage  returning  home, 

Ere  steeple  hove  in  sight,  or  tower  or  dome, 

Far  o'er  the  bitter  desert  of  the  brine 

I  knew  my  birth-place  by  the  smell  of  swine 

For  dear  Manhattan  was  a  village  then, 

And  its  pig  population  matched  its  men. 

TITYRUS. 

Once  to  New  Bedford  in  a  smack  I  sailed, 
When  one  dense  fog  both  land  and  ocean  veiled, 


86 


Yet  little  seemed  the  master  to  perplex  — 

A  tough,  dry  man,  whom  vapors  could  not  vex. 

"  Captain,  your  course  is  guess-work  now,"  said  I ; 

"  I  nose  my  reckoning,"  was  his  queer  reply ; 

No  beacon  guided  him,  nor  buoy,  nor  star, 

But  the  train-oil  he  scented  from  afar. 

MELIBCEUS. 

In  oriental  climes,  but  not  far  down, 
Lies  Marblehead  —  ancient  and  fish-like  town  ; 
Rich  less  in  pastures  than  in  sunburnt  rocks, 
Her  salted  cod  are  all  her  herds  and  flocks ; 
Beside  her  cod,  a  hardy  race  she  breeds, 
Whom  the  storms  cradle  and  the  ocean  feeds : 
When  one  of  these  bold  mariners,  her  boast, 
Returns  from  Ind,  or  California's  coast, 
Soon  as  the  gulf-stream  he  hath  left  behind, 
If  haply  come  a  puff  of  western  wind, 
Long  ere  the  cow  can  scent  the  distant  sod, 
He  snuffs  afar  his  country  and  his  cod : 
Hangs  o'er  the  rail,  and,  half  a  woman  grown, 
Adds  to  the  brine  some  droppings  of  his  own : 
Home  swells  his  heart  —  the  throne  of  every  wish  - 
0  home  !  0  friends  !  0  fireside  !  and  0  fish  ! 

TITYltUS. 

Strong  in  some  natures  is  the  nasal  sense  — 
To  them  each  odor  hath  its  eloquence ; 
With  some,  Remembrance  holds  her  secret  reign 
In  the  proboscis,  rather  than  the  brain ; 
While  in  more  stolid  ones,  of  ruder  make, 
Scarcely  could  onions  an  emotion  wake. 


87 


But  tell  me  now,  so  gifted  as  thou  art 
With  nicer  nerves,  that  speak  a  warmer  heart, 
Tell,  if  thy  memory  match  thy  smelling  powers, 
What  scents  distinguish  other  lands  from  ours  ? 


In  English  towns,  these  four  the  stranger  choke  : 

Damp  malt,  machinery,  gin,  and  sea-coal  smoke. 

Too  much  doth  Paris  in  perfumery  deal 

Its  native  odor  plainly  to  reveal : 

But  chocolate  there  prevails,  upon  the  whole, 

While  musk  and  coffee  mingle  in  Stamboul : 

Rome  with  burnt  wax  and  incense  ever  steams, 

Something  'twixt  violets  and  vanilla  creams : 

Florence  enjoys  a  perfume  all  its  own, 

Of  roasted  chestnuts  and  the  pine-tree's  cone : 

Malta  breathes  oranges  across  the  deep, 

To  ships  that  hover  nigh  her  castled  steep  : 

Madrid  in  garlic  doth  all  towns  surpass : 

New  York  is  rich  with  gutters  and  with  gas. 


Ah !  could  I  change  for  that  aroma  now 
These  hateful  smells  —  this  execrable  cow, 
The  rank  potato-fiehls,  the  pitchy  pines, 
These  melons,  withering  on  the  wilted  vines  : 
Fain  would  I  change,  for  any  stench  of  Art, 
This  mawkish  Nature 

MELIBCEUS. 

Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 


What  grateful  steam  along  the  corridor 
Steals  to  my  sense  ?  and  what  persuasive  roar  ? 
Hark !  't  is  the  dulcet  thunder  of  the  gong 


It  speaks  of  seed-cakes,  hyson  and  souchong 
Go,  wretched  Tityrus  !  and  get  your  tea ; 
Mine  own  is  waiting  in  my  cot  for  me. 


VESPERS  ON  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN. 

At  Savona,  a  very  ancient  little  city  on  the  coast  of  Genoa,  there  stands  a 
Madonna  by  the  lighthouse,  about  twelve  feet  high,  under  which  are  inscribed,  in 
letters  of  a  corresponding  size,  two  Sapphic  verses,  which  are  both  good  Latin 
and  choice  Italian — made  by  Gabriello  Chiabrera,  "  the  prince  of  Italian  lyric 
poetd,"  who  was  a  native  of  Savona, — 

"  In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  Stella." 

Vaiery,  the  most  agreeable  of  Italian  travellers,  —  a  charming  and  instructive 
writer,  and  a  pleasant  corrective  to  the  sharpness  of  Forsyth,  —  remarks  that  this 
pretty  distich  shows  the  genius  and  analogy  of  the  two  languages,  the  latter  of 
which  can  only  be  well  known  to  those  who  are  conversant  with  tho  former. 

These  verses  of  Chiabrera's  are  actually  sung,  to  this  day,  as  tho  burden  of  an 
aifectiiig  litany  to  the  Virgin,  iu  daily  use  among  the  mariners  of  the  Riviera. 

Religion's  purest  presence  was  not  found, 
By  the  first  followers  of  our  Saviour's  creed, 

In  stately  fanes  where  trump  and  timhrel-sound 
Sent  up  the  chorus  in  a  strain  agreed, 

And  where  the  decked  oblation's  wail  might  plead 

For  guilty  man  with  Abraham's  holy  seed. 

Not  in  vast  domes,  — horizons  hung  by  men, 
"Where  golden  panels  fret  a  marble  sky, 

And  things  below  look  up,  and  wonder  when 
Those  life-like  seraphim  would  start  and  fly  ! 

Not  where  the  heart  is  mastered  by  tho  eye 

Will  worship,  anthem-winged,  ascend  most  high. 


90 


But  in  the  damp  cathedral  of  the  grove, 
Where  Nature  feels  the  sanctitude  of  rest, 

Or  in  the  stillness  of  the  sheltered  cove, 
Which  noiseless  water-fowl  alone  molest, 

At  times  a  reverence  will  pervade  the  breast 

Which  will  not  always  come,  a  bidden  guest. 

Oft  as  the  parting  smiles  of  day  and  night 
Elush  earth  and  ocean  with  a  roseate  hue, 

And  the  quick  changes  of  the  magic  light 
Prolong  the  glory  of  their  warm  adieu, 

Each  pilgrim  on  the  hills,  and  every  crew 

On  the  lulled  waters,  frame  their  vows  anew. 

Then  by  the  waves  that  lip  Liguria's  land, 

In  Genoa's  gulf,  thou,  wanderer!  must  have  heard 

What,  more  than  hymns  from  Pcrgolesi's  hand, 
The  living  soul  of  adoration  stirred,  — 

And,  like  the  note  of  Spring's  first  welcomed  bird, 

Some  thoughts  awoke  —  for  which  there  is  no  word.  — 

The  shipman's  chant!  as  noting  travellers  tell, 
In  either  language  —  old  and  new  —  the  same  ; 

But  more  they  might  have  truly  said,  and  well, 
For  't  is  a  speech  the  universe  may  claim  ; 

Men  of  all  times,  all  climes,  and  every  name, 

Devotion's  tongue !  which  from  the  Godhead  came. 


Tost  rudderless  around  the  deep, 
By  Apennine  and  Alpine  blast, 

Which  o'er  the  surge  in  fury  sweep, 
And  make  a  bulrush  of  our  mast, 


91 


We  murmur  in  our  half-hour's  sleep. 
To  thee,  Madonna  !  till  the  storm  be  past. 
In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te  nostra  bcnigna  stella. 

Whether  for  weeks  our  bark  hath  striven 

With  death  in  wild  Sardinia's  waves, 
Or  downward  far  as  Tunis  driven, 

Threat  us  with  life  —  the  life  of  slaves ; 
Wc  know  whose  hand  its  help  has  given, 
And  locked  the  lightning  in  its  thunder  caves. 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 

0,  Virgin  !  when  the  landsman's  hymn, 

At  vesper  time,  on  bended  knee, 
In  sunlit  aisle,  or  chapel  dim, 

Or  cloister  cell,  is  paid  to  thee, 
Hear  us  !  that  ocean's  pavement  skim, 
And  join  our  anthem  to  the  raging  sea. 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 

And  when  the  tempest's  wrath  is  o'er, 

And  tired  Libeccio  sinks  to  rest, 
And  starlight  falls  upon  the  shore 

Where  love  sits  watching,  uncaressed, 
Though  hushed  the  tumult  and  the  roar, 
Again  the  prayer  we  '11  chant  which  Thou  hast  blest. 

Tn  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 


LOUISA'S   GRAVE. 

Deep  in  the  city's  noisy  heart 

A  sacred  spot  there  lies ; 
Amid  the  tumult,  yet  apart, 

And  shut  from  worldly  eyes. 

There,  just  beyond  the  chapel  shade, 

Hid  in  a  clovered  mound, 
Enough  of  innocence  is  laid 

To  sanctify  the  ground. 

Born,  as  the  violets  are,  in  May, 
With  song  of  birds  she  came, 

And  when  she  sighed  her  soul  away, 
The  season  was  the  same. 

It  seemed  in  heaven  benignly  meant 

To  give  this  virgin  birth 
When  all  things  beautiful  are  sent, 

To  bless  the  budding  earth. 

But,  if  her  birth  befitted  then 
The  spring-time  and  the  bloom, 

Why,  when  that  gladness  came  again, 
Why  went  she  to  the  tomb  ? 


93 

0,  let  not  impious  grief  accuse 

Kind  Nature  of  a  wrong  ! 
Her  form  in  flowers  and  fragrant  dews 

Shall  be  exhaled  ere  long. 

Her  beauty  was  akin  to  them ; 

Their  elements  combined 
To  shape  the  young,  consummate  stem, 

Whose  blossom  was  her  mind. 

And  now  the  blossom  is  with  God  ; 

Soon  shall  the  sun  and  showers 
Wake  from  the  slumber  of  the  sod 

All  that  was  ever  ours. 

No  weary  winter's  frozen  sleep, 

Under  the  torpid  snows, 
Her  undecaying  frame  can  keep 

In  the  clay's  cold  repose  : 

For  all  her  mortal  part  shall  melt, 

In  other  forms  to  rise, 
Before  her  spirit  shall  have  dwelt 

One  summer  in  the  skies. 


A  STORY   OF  THE  CARNIVAL. 

A  noble  Austrian  of  Trieste 

Was  wedded  to  as  fair  a  creature 

As  e'er  a  bridal  pillow  blest ; 

Of  all  Vienna's  court  confessed 
The  paragon,  in  form  and  feature. 

Her  husband,  in  his  dog-star  days,  — 

I  mean  his  youth's  more  sultry  season,  — 

At  galas,  revels,  routs  and  plays. 

Had  set  full  many  a  .heart  a-blaze, 
And  blazed  himself  beyond  all  reason. 

But,  like  a  fire  of  pitchy  wood, 
That  rages  for  a  while  and  flashes, 

And  suddenly  becomes  subdued, 

Unless  the  resin  is  renewed, 
To  a  dull  heap  of  sullen  ashes : 

Thus  Baron  Steiner's  fever-heat 

Seemed  cooling  to  a  quiet  glimmer 
Of  bliss  domestic  and  discreet : 
More  calmly  now  his  pulses  beat, 

Though  age  had  made  his  eye  no  dimmer. 

No  more  ecstatic  glimpses  now 
Of  paradise,  beneath  a  bonnet, 


95 

Warmed  his  imaginative  brow  ; 
No  rosy  lip  inspired  a  vow, 

Nor  angel's  voice  awoke  a  sonnet. 

Pardon  the  Baron,  then,  I  pray, 
You  gentler  readers  of  my  story, 

That,  after  long  repose,  one  day 

A  humor  seized  him  to  be  gay, 

Ere  yet  his  whiskers  had  grown  hoary. 

Carnival  time  was  come  at  last : 
All  Italy  was  filled  with  mummers  ; 

Till  Lent  't  was  held  a  sin  to  fast, 

And  winter  days  as  fleetly  passed 
As  ever  did  a  Tuscan  summer's. 

But,  from  Palermo  to  the  Po, 

Such  mirth,  such  masks,  such  feats  of  tennis, 
Such  revelry  of  high  and  low, 
What  bright  metropolis  could  show 

As  the  proud  spouse  of  ocean  —  Venice  ? 

The  gondolas  that  all  night  long 

Like  fire-flics  in  July  were  glancing  ; 
The  games,  the  gladness  and  the  throng 
That  rent  the  air  with  shout  and  song  ; 
The  feasts,  the  drinking  and  the  dancing : 

The  puppets  and  the  strolling  sights  — 

With  Punch, his  wooden  woman  mauling; 
The  bridges  hung  with  colored  lights, 
Like  little  rainbows,  and  the  flights 
Of  rockets,  rushing,  flashing,  falling: 


96 


The  flaming  wheels,  the  whizzing  snakes, 
Soaring  and  lost  among  the  Pleiads, 

Then  raining  down  in  fiery  flakes, 

The  deities  of  woods  and  lakes, 

Fauns,  Tritons,  oreads,  naiads,  dryads  : 

The  innumerable  fry  of  fools, 

Professional  and  dilettanti; 
Jugglers,  defying  Nature's  rules, 
With  monkeys  too,  and  dancing  mules 

Graceful  as  pupils  of  Papanti. 

All  sorts  of  monsters  —  mermen,  sharks  — 
Seals  that  could  waltz  and  act  genteelly ; 
Noah  would  have  required  two  arks 
For  all  the  beasts  that  choked  Saint  Mark's, 
Or  clustered  round  the  Campanile. 

The  peasant  folk  that  thronged  the  square, 

The  dominos  —  a  gaudy  legion  ! 
The  comfit-sellers  with  their  ware  — 
All  these  made  merry  Venice  wear 
The  look  of  an  enchanted  region. 

Since  everything  that 's  rare  or  queer, 
For  which  there  neither  name  nor  use  is, 

Was  hither  brought  from  far  and  near,  — 

Whatever  in  each  hemisphere 

Nature  or  man's  quick  brain  produces. 

And  multitudes,  all  Europe  through, 
From  far  as  Hungary  and  Poland, 

Trooped  hither  —  such  a  motley  crew  !  — 

Merely  to  mingle  in  and  view 
A  pageant  paralleled  by  no  land. 


97 

Hither,  with  too  much  ease  oppressed, 

Happy  almost  to  melancholy, 
The  Baron  speeds,  a  greedy  guest, 
To  rest  a  while  from  too  much  rest, 

And  dash  life  with  a  little  folly. 

But,  lest  his  jealous  dame  might  fret, 
He  veiled  the  purpose  of  bis  going, 

And  whispered  that  he  went  to  get, 

In  Brescia,  payment  of  a  debt 

Which  some  rich  tenant  there  was  owing. 

"  So,  love,  content  thee  for  a  while 

To  live  without  a  husband,  lonely  : 
A  week,"  he  added,  with  a  smile, 
"  Shall  bring  me  back ;  ay,  with  a  pile 
Of  ducats  for  thy  spending  only." 

Cheerfully  then  they  bade  farewell : 
The  Baron  hied  aboard  his  galley  ; 

She  to  her  chamber's  nun-like  cell, 

In  solitary  sort  to  dwell, 

With  nothing  male  —  nor  cat,  nor  valet. 

Hushed  is  the  house  ;  each  vacant  room 

Seems  sacred  to  repose  or  illness; 
So  solemnly,  as  through  the  gloom 
Of  sonic  new-opened  Roman  tomb, 
The  sunlight  falls  upon  the  stillness. 

But  Lkonohk,  —  a  neighbor  by, — 
A  widow,  mischievous  and  silly, 
Whose  wanton  spirit  rose  so  high, 
It  overflowed  each  wicked  eye, 

A  restive,  roguish,  rampant  filly; 

7 


98 

About  the  gadding  hour,  came  in, 

To  feed  her  ear  with  such  rare  fuel 
Of  news  as,  who  had  lately  been 
Suspected  of  some  private  sin, 

And  how  some  whispered  of  a  duel : 

And  whether  't  was  a  love  affair, 

And  what  would  be  the  consequences ; 

How  Such-a-one  had  got  a  pair 

Of  twins  ;  another  lost  her  hair, 

And  one  her  teeth,  and  one  her  senses. 

And  how  that  young  phenomenon. 

Had  such  a  wonderful  contr'alto, 
And  how  the  Carnival  went  on, 
And  what  disguise  the  meant  to  don, 

To  flaunt  in  on  the  mad  Rialto. 

For  all  the  world  (at  least,  the  best 

Half  of  it)  was  to  Venice  flocking, 
And  she  was  going  with  the  rest ; 
To  stay  at  home,  in  dull  Trieste, 

"Was  most  ridiculous  —  't  was  shocking ! 

"  Come,  you  shall  join  my  party  !     Nay, 

Don't  shake  your  head — I  '11  take  the  scolding; 

We  '11  give  to  merriment  one  day, 

And  see  such  sights  as  you  shall  say 
T  were  sin  to  live  without  beholding." 

'T  would  take  ten  epics,  numbering  each 
Twelve  books,  to  give  a  full  narration 

Of  all  the  forms  and  modes  of  speech 

She  took  to  counsel,  beg,  beseech, 
And  force  the  dame's  determination. 


99 

She  triumphed  too  ;  that  afternoon 
Saw  them  in  their  felucca  skimming 

The  Adriatic's  foam,  and  soon 

They  hoped  amid  the  blue  lagune 
To  see  the  sea-born  city  swimming. 

Meanwhile  the  Baron  gayly  flung 

Aside  all  thought  of  marriage  duties ; 
Revelled  the  revellers  among  — 
By  day,  grew  youthful  with  the  young  — 
By  night,  unmasked  Venetian  beauties. 

So  flew  a  week  —  how  brief  are  weeks 

To  lawyers  in  their  June  vacation  ! 
How  fleeter  far  to  him  who  seeks 
From  household  cares,  and  female  freaks 
And  bores  and  bills,  a  relaxation  ! 

The  final  night  is  come,  and  all 

Are  flocking  to  the  grand  ridotto, 
(Which  means  a  sort  of  concert-ball) 
Given  in  the  gilt  and  Gothic  hall 

Of  the  Marciiesa  di  Minotto. 

T  were  a  mad  thing  to  try  to  light 

La  Scala  with  a  single  taper ; 
But  madder  the  attempt  to  write 
The  glories  of  that  gaudy  night 

On  this  poor  single  sheet  of  paper. 

The  myriad  lamps,  the  brighter  eyes, 
The  music  and  the  sweeter  voices  ; 

The  ladies  decked  in  gay  disguise, 

From  whose  angelic  companies 

Young  princes  might  have  made  their  choices. 


100 

And  Austria's  Baron  too  was  there  ; 

His  galliot  in  the  stream  was  floating, 
That,  soon  as  morning  blanched  the  air, 
Homeward  in  haste  he  might  repair, 

To  duller  bliss  his  heart  devoting. 

Oft  in  the  frenzy  of  the  dance, 

Amid  the  scene's  intoxication, 
He  seemeth  lost  as  in  a  trance  ; 
A  pouting  lip,  a  sullen  glance, 

Flit  o'er  his  dark  imagination. 

He  dreams  upon  a  wife  in  tears, 
A  month  of  sulkiness  and  sorrow  ; 

A  woman's  wrath  is  in  his  ears, 

His  ecstasy  is  mixed  with  fears 
Of  his  reception  on  the  morrow. 

But,  lo  !  what  wonder  moves  this  way? 

What  meteor  hath  from  heaven  descended  ? 
How  light  her  limbs  !  —  their  airy  play 
Seems  like  the  tossing  of  the  spray  ! 

At  once  his  boding  dream  is  ended. 

Through  many  a  minuet,  on  her, 
Through  Tyrol  jig  and  Tarantella, 

He  gazes,  but  he  cannot  stir  ; 

Still  murmuring,  as  insane  he  were, 
"  Gcsu  !  che  brava  !   quanto  bella  !  " 

Anon,  with  beating  heart  and  head, 

Toward  her  amid  the  throng  he  presses ; 
"Fair  lady,  by  your  leave,"  lie  said, 
"Together  we  '11  a  measure  tread  ;  *' 
Blest  man  !  her  fingers  he  possesses. 


101 

He  leads  her  forth  ;  he  whirls  her  through 
Waltz  after  waltz,  till,  growing  dizzy, 

She  fain  would  sit  —  he  seats  him  too  ; 

One  arm  about  her  waist  he  drew, 
One  hand  was  with  her  tresses  busy. 

"  Nay,  if  you  tease  me,  sir,  good-night ! " 

She  rose  in  haste  —  and  he  rose  with  her; 
"  Farewell,  sir ;  how  in  such  a  plight 
I  dread  to  meet  my  husband's  sight ! 
He  knew  not  of  my  coming  hither. 

"  And  here  I  am,  all  lace  and  gold ; 

Ah  me !  what  madness  was 't  came  o'er  me  ! 
How  the  dear  soul  would  rave  and  scold, 
These  foolish  trappings  to  behold, 

Should  he  perchance  get  home  before  me !  " 

"  Nay,  but  I  '11  see  you  to  the  shore," 

Quoth  he ;  "  these  link-boys  are  so  stupid." 

To  guide  their  way,  a  lad  who  bore 

A  lighted  flambeau  ran  before, 
Fit  representative  of  Cupid! 

"  T  is  very  dark  and  dangerous  too — 

Here  take  my  arm,  amico  mio  ;  " 
Thus  toward  the  Grand  Canal  they  drew 
Where  swiftly  down  the  steps  she  flew, 
"  Here  is  my  gondola  —  Addio  !  " 

With  this,  aboard  she  nimbly  leaped, 
And  hid  within  its  curtained  cover  ; 

But  ever  close  behind  her  kept, 

And  underneath,  beside  her  crept, 
Her  iudefatigable  lover. 


102 

The  gondoliers,  as  off  they  bore 
The  dame  and  her  inamorato, 

To  cheer  the  labor  of  the  oar 

Struck  up  a  chorus,  as  of  yore 

They  sang  from  the  divine  Torquato. 

Now  Tasso's  lays  are  thrown  aside, 

With  Tyranny's  neglected  trophies  ; 
And  Venice,  to  her  ocean-bride, 
Even  when  the  moon  is  on  the  tide, 
Repeats  no  more  his  tender  strophes. 

Perchance  the  pilgrim,  wandering  there, 
May  hear  some  ballad,  quaint  or  pretty, 

Some  silly  words  and  foreign  air, 

Some  modern  trifle  by  Auber, 
Or  slight  conceit  of  Donizetti  : 

But  when  romantic  Johnny  flies 

From  his  dull  nook  in  smoky  Britain, 
He  thinks  beneath  Italian  skies 
To  hear  each  dog  bark  melodies, 
And  music  mewed  by  every  kitten. 

And  when  the  Yankee  cockney  goes 

To  Venice,  on  his  virgin  trip,  he 
Is  apt,  green  sapling  !  to  suppose 
He  shall  hear  sweeter  strains  than  those 
That  charmed  him  on  the  Mississippi. 

But  that 's  a  fallacy  ;  for  oft, 

On  the  Ohio,  I  have  listened 
To  barcaroles  so  strangely  soft, 
That  while  at  the  rude  words  I  scoffed, 

The  moisture  in  mine  eye  has  glistened. 


103 

And  oftentimes  the  dulcet  drone 

Of  those  queer,  western  river-catches 
Moves  a  man  more  than  he  will  own  : 
Such  music  I  have  seldom  known 

As  the  poor  negroes  make  at  Natchez. 

But,  this  digression  to  give  o'er, 

The  gondoliers  howled  forth  a  ditty, 
And  fast  receded  from  the  shore 
Where  Pleasure,  but  an  hour  before, 
Revelled,  sole  regent  of  the  city. 

Low  in  the  west  the  sinking  moon 

Gleamed  faintly,  looking  wan  and  jaded ; 
And  sadly,  o'er  the  dark  lagune, 
Died  the  dead  carnival's  last  tune, 
The  carnival's  last  glimmer  faded. 

Afar  a  crimson  lantern  showed 
Where  a  small  brigantine  awaited 

The  coming  of  its  final  load  ; 

Toward  this  with  speed  the  boatmen  rowed  - 
The  lady  feared  they  were  belated. 

They  reached  the  bark ;  the  master  cried, 

"  Madam,  for  you  alone  we  tarry  ; 
The  wind  is  brisk  upon  the  tide  —  " 
"  For  me  alone  !  —  no,"  she  replied, 
"  Since  here  are  two  of  us  to  carry." 

She  climbed  the  deck ;  her  faithful  squire 
Lent  her  his  hand,  and  followed  after ; 

He  knew  her  coyness  soon  must  tire, 

And  for  his  insolent  desire 

Read  happy  omens  in  her  laughter. 


104 

0,  yes  —  she  smiled  !  he  knew  she  would — 

In  friendly  mood  they  passed  together 
To  the  small  cabin,  where  a  brood 
Of  passengers,  as  best  they  could, 

Slept,  snugly  sheltered  from  the  weather. 

A  drowsy  scene  !  for  all  around, 

In  spite  of  close,  unsavory  quarters, 
Lay,  fast  in  sweet  oblivion  bound, 
And  with  harmonious  noses  drowned 
The  gurgle  of  the  sullen  waters. 

Close  packed,  as  bees  within  a  hive, 

Some  nestled  underneath  the  table  ; 
Each  nook,  each  angle  was  alive  — 
The  berths  were  crammed,  and  four  or  five 
Lay  cuddling  round  a  coil  of  cable. 

But  through  the  swarm,  with  careful  pace, 
O'er  arms  and  legs,  confusedly  mingled, 
Now  o'er  a  foot  and  now  a  face 
Stumbling,  he  found,  by  luck,  one  place 
Which  none  for  their  repose  had  singled. 

"Be  this  thy  couch  to-night  —  this  chest; 

Soon  may  the  breathing  of  the  billow 
Bock  thine  exhausted  limbs  to  rest !  " 
With  this,  her  hand  he  gently  pressed, 

Sank  down,  and  made  her  lap  his  pillow. 

Close  at  his  side  another  dame, 
Hid  in  her  mantle,  was  reposing, 

From  whom  upon  his  weary  frame 

A  sort  of  magnetism  there  came, 
His  senses  to  a  calm  composing. 


105 

And  nothing  long  his  eyes  could  keep 
Free  from  that  blessed  seal  of  sorrow, 

And  care,  and  thought,  and  pleasure  —  Bleep, 

Sweet  sleep !  so  perfect  and  so  deep, 
As  though  there  could  be  no  to-morrow ! 

At  last  he  woke  to  see  the  sun 

In  at  the  open  hatches  peeping  ; 
But  his  companions,  every  one, 
As  though  their  bliss  were  just  begun. 

Lay  still,  their  brains  in  Lethe  steeping. 

She,  like  the  rest,  indulged  her  nap ; 

Hushed  was  the  heart  that  lately  fluttered, 

Heedless  of  pleasure  or  mishap 

But,  "  0  !  that  this  were  Bertha's  lap, 

Or  this  were  not  my  head  !  "  he  muttered. 

Then  curiosity  —  the  vice 

First-born  of  womankind  —  came  o'er  him, 
And  half  seduced  him,  once  or  twice, 
To  look  upon  this  pearl  of  price 

That  lay  thus  casketed  before  him. 

And  often,  as  his  courage  rose, 

He  raised  his  hand,  but  straight  withdrew  it ;  — 
There  's  something  sacred  in  repose, 
Even  in  an  after-dinner  doze  ; 

One  fears  too  rudely  to  break  through  it. 

Beep,  deep  in  happy  dreams  she  lies  ! 

Now  might  he  gaze  on  her  securely ; 
He  lifts  her  mask  —  at  once  her  eyes 
Fasten  on  his  :  "Great  Heaven !"  he  cries, 

"How  like  !  —  how  like  !  —  7  is  Bertha,  surely!" 


106 

His  Bertha's  laugh  disturbed  the  snore 
Of  the  veiled  heap  of  dormant  matter 

That  lay  beside  him,  on  the  floor  ; 

She  threw  her  cloak  off  —  Leoxore  ! 
He  gazed  in  palsied  horror  at  her. 

"  0,  for  a  storm  !  "  he  thought ;  "  a  squall ! 

Breakers !  or  but  a  burst  of  thunder  ! 
0  !  that  a  water-spout  would  fall ! 
Or  aught  that  might  this  jade  appal, 

And  keep  her  soul  of  mischief  under  ! " 

But  Jove  consented  to  the  jest ; 

Widow  and  wife  would  have  their  laughter ; 
And,  ere  the  vessel  touched  Trieste, 
All  was  forgiven  and  all  confessed, 

And  Peace  dwelt  with  them  ever  after. 


ADDRESS, 

WltlTTEN     FOR     THE    OPENING     OF   THE     BOSTON     THEATRE,    IN    FEDERAL- 
STREET. 

Behind  this  mystic  veil,  that,  newly-furled, 
Unfolds  your  true  to  our  ideal  world, 
The  actors  wait,  like  mariners  on  deck, 
Watching  afar  their  country's  misty  speck, 
Till,  near  enough  to  catch  the  welcome  bell, 
The  breath  of  gardens  and  the  pine's  warm  smell, 
At  once  they  mark  the  filmy  vapor  soar, 
And  rood  by  rood  reveal  the  sacred  shore  : 
Thus  have  we  watched,  until  the  screen  ascends, 
Disclosing  home  again  and  troops  of  friends, 
Every  loved  smile  and  well-remembered  face, 
Each  reverend  landmark  in  its  ancient  place, 
The  light-house  there  of  yonder  nameless  eyes, 
And  the  gray  peaks  that  round  the  distance  rise. 

Joy  to  the  city !  from  whose  triple  mount 
Transplanted  Learning  struck  her  earliest  fount, 
Where  the  twin  daughters  of  the  Drama  came 
Ere  yet  our  nation  had  achieved  a  name, 
And  reared  for  England's  genius  and  our  own 
A  fitting  stage,  a  perdurable  throne, 


108 

Which  time  and  dulness  have  assailed  in  vain, 

Fashion's  light  swarm  and  Zeal's  ascetic  train. 

All  evil  auguries  have  been  fulfilled, 

All  the  bad  cry  of  calumny  is  stilled, 

The  liberal  sunshine  of  reviving  Taste 

From  our  glad  heaven  each  wintry  sign  hath  chased, 

The  maledictions  too  benignly  showered, 

And  all  the  clouds  upon  our  house  that  lowered. 

When  the  sad  Sisters,  wandering  exiled  thence, 
Bade  the  reformer's  promised  reign  commence, 
Though  many  a  pitying  breast  and  eyelid  here 
Deigned  a  kind  sigh  and  dropped  a  useless  tear, 
He_took  his  triumph,  proud  even  such  to  win, 
But  desolation  had  before  him  been. 
As  Moscow's  victors,  dumb  with  wondering  awe, 
Bode  through  the  gates,  but  nothing  living  saw ; 
By  fort  and  church  and  vacant  palace  passed, 
But  heard  no  drum,  nor  gun,  nor  bugle  blast, 
Nor  fierce  defiance  answering  from  the  roofs 
The  measured  beating  of  their  horses'  hoofs,  — 
Thus  did  the  new  possessor  and  his  hordes 
Grimly  profane  the  silence  of  our  boards, 
With  wanton  hand  the  mysteries  unfold, 
And  rend  the  caverns  where  our  thunders  rolled ; 
No  ghost  opposed  him  on  his  impious  track, 
No  lloman  soldier  bade  the  invader  back  ; 
Weapons  there  were,  but  all  of  men  bereft : 
Whole  heaps  of  fasces,  —  not  a  lictor  left. 
So  through  the  solitude  that  quelled  his  fear 
The  exulting  zealot  held  his  wild  career, 


109 

Tore  from  its  wonted  niche  the  hallowed  bust, 

And  laid  the  Prince  of  Poets  in  the  dust, 

Whose  gloomy  shade,  still  hovering  round  the  fane, 

Wandered  a  beggar  in  his  own  domain, 

Like  great  Ulysses  on  the  sullen  shore 

That  knew  his  footstep  and  his  face  no  more. 

Say,  now,  to  whom  our  brief  defeat  was  due, 

The  strict  precisian,  or  in  part  to  you  ? 

Patrons,  to  you  this  half-reproof  we  owe, 

He  called  it  conquest  not  to  find  a  foe ; 

The  victims  we  of  Friendship's  fickle  whim, 

13}'  you  deserted,  not  subdued  by  him. 

Long  had  we  marked  the  fatal  reign  advance. 

Of  Ethiop  song  and  spectacle  and  dance, 

Majestic  thought  in  grovelling  words  was  drowned, 

Words  poor  in  sense,  but  silvered  o'er  with  sound ; 

From  Prospero's  hand  the  rod  and  volume  fell, 

No  spirits  came  nor  recognized  the  spell, 

But  serious  lovers  of  our  art  disdained 

A  shrine  like  Egypt's  even  by  beasts  profaned, 

Where  dogs  and  drunkards,  into  service  prest, 

Pleased  a  dull  pit,  and  gave  the  gods  a  jest. 

0,  many  a  true  and  fond  believer  then 
Kept  his  old  faith,  but  kept  it  hid  from  men; 
Oft  from  the  shelf  took  down  the  tragic  tome, 
And  conned  his  Hamlet,  unrcproved,  at  home. 
But  who  had  heart,  when  thus  the  Drama  sank, 
Amid  the  champions  of  her  cause  to  rank  ? 
Even  we,  her  servants,  faithful  to  the  last, 
Owned  her  doom  just,  as  she  to  judgment  passed, — 


110 

Guilt  on  her  brow,  confusion  in  her  eye, 
All  the  more  low  for  having  soared  so  high. 

Less,  then,  the  austere  morality  we  blame, 
That  came,  and  saw,  and  bought,  and  overcame  ; 
Cold  as  the  blast  from  Caucasus,  that  brings 
The  plague-smit  Orient  health  upon  its  wings, 
The  storm  assailed  us,  but  its  icy  breath 
Purged  the  sick  atmosphere  from  seeds  of  death, 
And  gave  our  clime,  for  languor  and  disease, 
Strength  and  glad  life  again,  and  smiles  like  these. 

But  let  no  sour  disciple  of  the  school 
That  deems  the  bard  a  mere  melodious  fool ; 
Let  no  gaunt  leader  of  the  cynic  tribe, 
No  cold-eyed  pharisee,  nor  solemn  scribe,  — 
Censorious  Catos,  that,  like  him  of  old, 
Naught  in  refinement  but  its  vice  behold, 
And,  aping  him,  would  banish,  in  their  hate, 
These  "  Attic  babblers  "  that  corrupt  the  state, — 
Let  no  such  bigot  hope  to  lord  it  long 
O'er  the  chief  realm  of  passion  and  of  song, 
Or  think  that  Sabine  harshness  to  revive 
Which  on  spare  lentils  kept  itself  alive  ! 

Rather  let  us  from  Scipio's  gentler  mind 
Learn  wiser  truths  and  precepts  more  refined ; 
Nor  in  meet  season  one  calm  hour  refuse 
To  the  mild  service  of  the  lettered  muse  ; 
But  to  the  poet  and  the  player  accord 
The  praise  which  merit  counts  its  best  reward ; 


Ill 


That,  if  new  Garricks,  on  Missouri's  banks, 
Or  other  Kembles,  earn  a  nation's  thanks, 
They  may  not,  boasting  of  their  triumphs  there, 
Upbraid  our  barren  soil  and  kindless  air, 
And  say  of  us — 'Twas  but  a  sordid  age; 
They  had  no  poet,  and  despised  the  stage. 
June  30,  1846. 


A  SONG  FOR  SEPTEMBER. 

September  strews  the  woodland  o'er 

With  many  a  brilliant  color ; 
The  world  is  brighter  than  before  — 

Why  should  our  hearts  be  duller  ? 
Sorrow  and  the  scarlet  leaf, 

Sad  thoughts  and  sunny  weather, 
Ah  me  !  this  glory  and  this  grief 

Agree  not  well  together. 

This  is  the  parting  season  —  this 

The  time  when  friends  arc  flying ; 
And  lovers  now,  with  many  a  kiss, 

Their  long  farewells  are  sighing. 
Why  is  earth  so  gayly  drest  ? 

This  pomp  that  autumn  beareth 
A  funeral  seems,  where  every  guest 

A  bridal  garment  weareth. 

Each  one  of  us,  perchance,  may  here, 

On  some  blue  morn  hereafter, 
Return  to  view  the  gaudy  year, 

Rut  nut  wilh  boyish  laughter: 
We  shall  then  lie  wrinkled  men, 

Our  brows  with  silver  laden, 
And  thou  this  ;r!en  mayst  seek  again, 

Rut  nevermore  a  maiden  ! 


113 

Nature  perhaps  foresees  that  Spring 

Will  touch  her  teeming  bosom, 
And  that  a  few  brief  months  will  bring 

The  bird,  the  bee,  the  blossom ; 
Ah  !  these  forests  do  not  know  — 

Or  would  less  brightly  wither  — 
The  virgin  that  adorns  them  so 

Will  never  more  come  hither  ' 
Let  den  Glex,  Greenfield. 
8 


PROEM   TO   MANZONI'S   "CINQUE   MAGGIO;"* 

INSCRIBED  TO  MARY  RUSSELL  MITP0RD. 
I. 

Read  what  the  Christian  poet  saith, 

0  lady !   in  my  faithful  rhyme, 
Of  the  great  Captain  and  his  death  ; 

And  venerate,  with  me,  that  Faith 
Which  in  the  aspiring  man  of  crime, 

Whom  gentle  goodness  must  abhor,  — 
Who  carried  into  every  clime 

The  fury  and  the  waste  of  war,  — 
Some  seeds  of  pardon  can  discern ; 
Yea,  from  his  dying  pillow  learn 
A  lesson  worthy  of  the  solemn  strain 
That  long  as  all  his  triumphs  shall  remain. 

ir. 

Him  and  his  history  of  blood, 

Him  and  the  ruin  that  he  made, 
By  Moskwa's  and  the  Nile's  far  flood, 

All  his  bad  victories,  displayed 
On  many  an  arch  and  boastful  pile 
That  wake  the  wandering  Briton's  smile, 

*  See  page  118. 


115 

To  find  no  name  of  England  there : 
These  can  the  lenient  Muse  recall, 
And  breathe  forgiveness  over  all, 

With  a  majestic  prayer. 

in. 

Child  of  his  time,  the  poet  speaks 

Such  thoughts  as  to  the  time  belong  — 
No  more  his  private  malice  wreaks 

In  the  small  vengeance  of  a  song : 
That  day  of  doom  —  that  bitter  day, 
When  Hate  sate  sov'ran  o'er  his  lay, 

And  bade  him,  in  his  burning  line, 

To  an  eternal  curse  consign 
God's  universe  —  hath  passed  away. 

IV. 

For,  men  who  seem  to  shape  their  age, 

Yea,  fashion  history  to  their  will, 
And  on  Fame's  perdurable  page 

Write  their  own  record,  good  or  ill, — 
Even  these,  if  rightly  scanned, 

Are  but  the  ivory  toys  upon  the  board 
Moving,  to  lose  or  win, 

By  force  of  mitre,  crown  or  sword,  — 
Yet  all  their  little  leaps  have  been 
Directed  by  a  wiser  hand ! 


Therefore  the  gracious  Lombard  muse,  benign 
Interpreter  of  Home, 


116 

Finds  in  this  Attila  one  spark  divine, 

That  hath  in  heaven  its  home : 
So  welcomes  him  to  his  eternal  rest ! 
With  such  high  music  as  befits  the  blest. 

VI. 

Not  so  the  grave  Etrurian  lyre 

Had  sounded,  in  that  sterner  age 
When  vengeance  thrilled  the  quivering  wire, 
When  what  the  poet  thought  was  fire  — 

And  what  he  said  was  rage  : 
When  the  great  Ghibeline,  gloomy  and  unsparing, 
Moved  like  Fate's  shadow,  at  his  girdle  wearing 
Peter's  lent  keys  —  the  while  his  iron  hand 
Held  Pluto's  passport  to  the  sunless  land ! 


He,  to  these  images  of  wrong 

Wherewith  his  unforgiving  heart 
Peopled  the  pitiless  realm  of  his  dark  song  — 
To  Dionysius  and  his  tyrant  throng* 

Had  added  Bonaparte  : 
And  with  the  rest  of  that  fell  brood, — 

Pyrrhus,  and  Obizzo  the  fair, 

And  the  grim  Paduan  with  the  raven  hair,  - 

Had  sunk  him  in  that  river  of  despair, 
To  drink  his  fill  of  blood. 


*•  Dante,  in  the  twelfth  Canto  of  the  Inferno,  describes  the  tyrants  who  out- 
raged humanity  as  plunged  in  a  river  of  boiling  blood,  whilo  Centaurs  gallon 
about  the  stream,  shooting  them  with  arrows.  Among  these  sinners  ho  numbers 
Attila,  Dionysius,  Obizzo  of  Este,  and  Ezzelino  the  tyrant  of  Padua. 


117 

VIII. 

But  He  that,  in  the  midst  of  wrath, 

Remembers  mercy  still, 
Reveals  by  Calvary  a  path 

Conducting  out  of  ill, 
Into  the  glad,  immortal  fields  above, 
"Where  His  great  justice  is  allayed  by  Love. 
Be  this  our  trust :  and  may  the  lofty  bard 

Who  rules  the  Latin  minstrelsy  to-day 
Soften  within  us  what  is  harsh  or  hard. 
Here  calumny  should  cease  — 

Peace  for  the  weary  soldier  let  us  pray, 

Since  by  that  lone  and  lowly  death-bed  lay 
His  cross — who  was  the  Prince  of  Peace. 


MANZ0NP3  ODE 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON, 

(THE   FIFTH   OF   MAY.) 

He  was  :  and  motionless  in  death, 

As  that  unconscious  clay, 
Robbed  of  so  mighty  breath, 

In  speechless  ruin  lay, 
Even  so,  bewildered,  stunned,  aghast, 

Earth  at  the  tale  is  dumb, 
Pondering  the  final  agonies 

Of  him,  the  man  of  fate, 
And  wondering  when,  with  tread  like  his, 

Again  to  desolate 
Her  trampled  fields,  all  dust  and  blood, 
A  mortal  loot  shall  come. 

Him,  upon  his  refulgent  throne, 

In  silence  could  my  soul  survey, 
And  when,  by  varying  fortunes  blown, 

He  fell,  rose  —  fell  again  and  lay, 
My  spirit  to  the  million's  tone 

Echoed  back  no  reply  ; 
Virgin  alike  from  servile  praise, 

And  cowardly  abuse ; 
But  now,  as  wane  the  meteor's  rays, 

I  let  my  genius  loose, 
To  fall  upon  his  urn  one  strain 
Perchance  that  shall  not  die. 


IN   MORTE   DI  NAPOLEONE, 

(IL    CINQUE    MAGQIO.) 

El  fu  ;  siccome  immobile, 
Dato  il  mortal  sospiro, 
Stette  la  spoglia  immemore 
Orba  di  tanto  spiro, 
Cos!  percossa,  attonita, 
La  terra  al  nunzio  sta ; 

Muta  pensando  all'  ultima 
Ora  dell'uom  fatale, 
Ne  sa  quando  una  simile 
Orma  di  pie  mortale 
La  sua  cruenta  polvere 
A  calpestar  verra. 

Lui  sfolgorante  in  soglio 
Aide  il  mio  genio  e  tacque, 
Quando  con  vece  assidua 
Cadde,  risorse,  e  giacque, 
Di  millc  voci  al  sonito 
Mista  la  sua  non  ha  : 

Vergin  di  servo  encomio 
E  di  codardo  oltraggio 
Sorge  or  commosso  al  subito 
Sparir  di  tanto  raggio, 
E  scioglie  all'urna  un  cantico, 
Che  forse  non  morra. 


120 

From  the  Alps  to  the  Pyramids, 

From  the  Manzanar  to  the  Rhine, 
He  tracked  his  eagles,  as  the  bolt 

Follows  its  flashing  sign. 
From  Tanais  to  Scylla  glancing, 

From  the  "West  to  the  Eastern  brine : 
Was  this  true  greatness  ?  —  That  high  doom 

Let  after  times  declare ; 
We  to  the  Greatest  bow,  from  whom 

He  held  so  large  a  share 
Of  the  Most  High,  creative  mind, 

Stamped  by  the  hand  divine. 

The  tremulous,  tempestuous  joy 
Of  lofty  enterprise — the  heart 

That  knew  no  rest  from  its  employ, 
But  burned  to  play  the  imperial  part ; 

And  won  and  kept  a  prize  whose  dream 
Had  madness  seemed,  at  best  — 

All  he  had  proved  and  passed  —  renown 
That  after  danger  brightest  smiled, 

Defeat  and  flight,  and  victory's  crown, 
A  ruler  now,  and  now  exiled,  — 
Twice  humbled  in  the  dust,  defiled, 
Twice  at  the  altar  blest. 

Two  ages,  'gainst  each  other  armed, 

Him  for  their  umpire  named, 
Looking  on  him  as  Fate  :  he  charmed 

To  silence  their  contentions  —  tamed 
Their  frantic  feuds,  and  sat  supreme 
Their  factious  ra^e  above  : 


121 

Dall'  Alpi  alle  Piramidi, 
Dal  Mansanare  al  Eeno, 
Di  quel  securo  il  fulmine 
Tenea  dietro  al  baleno ; 
Scoppio  da  Scilla  al  Tanai, 
Dall'  uno  all'  altro  mar. 

Fu  vera  gloria  ?  ai  posted 
L'  ardua  sentenza ;  nui 
Chiniam  la  fronte  al  Massimo 
Fattor,  che  voile  in  lui 
Del  creator  suo  spirito 
Piu  vasta  orma  stampar. 

La  procellosa  e  trepida 
Gioja  d'  un  gran  disegno, 
L'  ansia  d'  un  cor,  che  indocile 
Ferve  pensando  al  regno, 
E  '1  giunge,  e  tiene  un  premio 
Ch'  era  follia  sperar, 

Tutto  ei  prov6  ;  la  gloria 
Maggior  dopo  il  periglio,- 
La  fuga,  e  la  vittoria, 
La  reggia,  e  il  triste  esiglio, 
Due  volte  nella  polvere, 
Due  volte  su  gli  altar. 

£i  si  nomo  :  due  secoli, 

L'  un  contro  1'  altro  armato, 
Sommessi  a  lui  si  volsero 
Come  aspettando  il  fato  : 
Ei  fe'  silenzio,  ed  arbitro 
S'  assise  in  mezzo  a  lor ; 


122 

He  vanished  —  and  his  vacant  days 

Spent  in  so  small  a  sphere ! 
Majestic  mark  for  envy's  gaze, 

And  pity  most  sincere  — 
For  unextinguishable  hate, 

And  never-vanquished  love. 

As  on  the  shipwrecked  seaman's  head 

The  o'erwhelming  breakers  pour, 
Beyond  whose  foaming  fury  spread 

Around  him  and  before, 
The  wretch  had  vainly  gazed  to  see 

The  intangible,  far  strand  : 
Thus  o'er  that  strong  but  sinking  soul 

Swept  Memory's  whelming  tide, 
As  oft  his  actions  to  enrol 

In  Fame's  re'cords  he  tried  ;  — 
But  from  the  everlasting  scroll 

Fell,  faint,  his  harassed  hand. 

0  !  at  the  silent,  dying  hour 

Of  some  dull  day  of  rest, 
His  lightning  eyes  in  sullen  lower, 

And  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast, 
How  often  have  his  days  of  power 

Bushed  on  remembrance  thick  ! 
Then  to  his  backward-roving  thought 

The  moving  tents,  the  trench,  the  course, 
The  gleaming  squadrons  have  been  brought, 

The  sea-like  surging  of  the  horse, 

The  martial  word,  the  swift  command, 

The  obedience,  no  less  quick. 


123 

Ei  sparve,  e  i  di  nell'  ozio 
Chiuse  in  si  breve  sponda, 
Segno  d'  immensa  invidia, 
E  di  pieta  profonda, 
D'  inestinguibil  odio, 
E  d'indomato  amor. 

Come  sul  capo  al  naufrago 
L'  onda  s'  avvolve  e  pesa, 
L'  onda  su  cui  del  misero 
Alta  pur  dianzi  e  tesa 
Scorrea  la  vista  a  scernere 
Prode  remote  invan ; 

Tal  su  quell'  alma  '1  cumulo 
Delle  memorie  scese ; 
Oh  !  quante  volte  ai  posted 
Narrar  se  stesso  imprese, 
E  sulle  eterne  pagine 
Cadde  la  stanca  man  ! 

Oh !  quante  volte  al  tacito 
Morir  d'  un  giorno  inerte, 
Chinati  i  rai  fulminei, 
Le  braccia  al  sen  conscrte, 
Stette,  e  dei  di  che  furono 
L'  assalse  il  sovvenir. 

Ei  ripenso  le  mobili 
Tende,  c  i  percossi  valli, 
E  il  lampo  dei  manipoli. 
E  1'  onda  dei  cavalli, 
E  il  concitato  imperio, 
E  il  celerc  obbodir. 


124 

Ahi !  forse  a  tanto  strazio 

Cadde  lo  spirto  anelo ; 

E  disperd ;  ma  valida 

Venne  una  man  dal  cielo, 

E  in  piu  spirabil  aere 

Pietosa  il  trasporto ; 

E  1'  awio  su  i  floridi 
Sentier  della  speranza, 
Ai  campi  eterni,  al  premio 
Che  i  desiderii  avanza, 
Ov'  e  silenzio  e  tenebre 
La  gloria  che  passo. 

Bella,  immortal,  benefica 
Fede  ai  trionfi  avvezza, 
Scrivi  ancor  questo ;  allegrati : 
Che  piu  superba  altezza 
Al  disonor  del  Golgota 
Giammai  non  si  chind. 

Tu  dalle  stanche  ceneri 
Sperdi  ogni  ria  parola  ; 
II  Dio  che  atterra  e  suscita, 
Che  affanna  e  che  consola, 
Sulla  deserta  col  trice 
Accanto  a  lui  posd. 


125 

Alas !  at  such  an  overthrow 

Haply  that  panting  spirit  failed ; 
Haply  despairing  drooped  :  but,  lo  ! 

The  Omnipotent  from  heaven  hailed 
His  child,  and  unto  purer  air, 

With  pitying  hand  conveyed  ; 
And  through  the  flowery  paths  of  hope 

Dismissed  him  to  the  eternal  fields, 
Where  more  than  even  his  lofty  scope 

Perfect  fruition  yields, 
And  where  the  glory  that  hath  past 
Is  silence  now,  and  shade. 

Beneficent,  immortal,  fair, 

Faith  holds  her  wonted  triumph  yet : 
Write  this  besides:  Rejoice !  for  ne'er 

Did  haughtier  potentate  forget 
His  pride,  and  meekly  bow  at  last, 

To  Golgotha's  disgrace. 
Thou,  o'er  his  weary  dust,  each  low 

Calumnious  word  forbear ; 
The  God  from  whom  afflictions  flow, 

All  comfort  and  all  care, 
Beside  him  deigned,  on  his  low  bed, 
To  find  a  resting-place. 


HUDSON  RIVER. 

Rivers  that  roll  most  musical  in  song 
Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone  ; 

The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 

Their  barren  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyish  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  own,  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"  Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  pour 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles ; 

Or  views  the  Rhone  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries ; 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
His  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Rome, 

Oft  to  his  thought  must  partial  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home  ; 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  behold 
The  lordly  Hudson,  marching  to  the  main, 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old, 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain. 


127 

Along  the  Rhine,  gray  battlements  and  towers 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  possessed  ; 

But  here  Heaven's  handiwork  surpasscth  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  these  heights, 
Nor  antique  arches  check  the  current's  play, 

Nor  mouldering  architrave  the  mind  invites 
To  dream  of  deities  long  passed  away. 

No  Gothic  buttress,  or  decaying  shaft 

Of  marble,  yellowod  by  a  thousand  years, 

Lifts  a  great  landmark  to  the  little  craft  — 
A  summer  cloud !  that  comes  and  disappears. 

But  cliffs,  unaltered  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

And  hold  their  savins  to  the  upper  storm, 
While  far  below  the  skiff  securely  plies. 

Farms,  rich  not  more  in  meadows  than  in  men 
Of  Saxon  mould,  and  strong  for  every  toil, 

Spread  o'er  the  plain,  or  scatter  through  the  glen, 
Boeotian  plenty  on  a  Spartan  soil. 

Then,  where  the  reign  of  cultivation  ends, 
Again  the  charming  wilderness  begins ; 

From  steep  to  steep  one  solemn  wood  extends, 
Till  some  new  hamlet's  rise  the  boscage  thins. 

And  these  deep  groves  forever  have  remained 

Touched  by  no  axe  —  by  no  proud  owner. nursed  : 

As  now  they  stand  they  stood  when  Pharaoh  reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first. 


128 

Thou  Scottish  Tweed,  a  sacred  streamlet  now !  * 
Since  thy  last  minstrel  laid  him  down  to  die, 

Where  through  the  casement  of  his  chamber  thou 
Didst  mix  thy  moan  with  his  departing  sigh ; 

A  few  of  Hudson's  more  majestic  hills 

Might  furnish  forests  for  the  whole  of  thine, 

Hide  in  thick  shade  all  Humber's  feeding  rills, 
And  darken  all  the  fountains  of  the  Tyne. 

Name  all  the  floods  that  pour  from  Albion's  heart, 
To  float  her  citadels  that  crowd  the  sea, 

In  what,  except  the  meaner  pomp  of  Art, 
Sublimer  Hudson  !  can  they  rival  thee  ? 

*  "As  I  was  dressing,  on  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  17th  of  September,  Nieol- 
son  came  into  my  room,  and  told  me  that  his  master  had  awoke  in  a  state  of 
composure  and  consciousness,  and  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I  found  him 
entirely  himself,  though  in  the  last  extreme  of  feebleness.  His  eye  was  clear 
and  calm  ;  — every  trace  of  the  wild  fire  of  delirium  extinguished.  'Lockhart,' 
he  said,  '  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be  a  good  man  ; 
—  be  virtuous,  —  be  religious,  —  be  a  good  man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you 
any  comfort  when  you  come  to  lie  here.'  lie  paused,  and  I  said,  'Shall  I  send 
for  Sophia  and  Anne  1 '  —  '  Xo,'  said  he  ;  '  don't  disturb  them.  Poor  souls  ! 
I  know  they  were  up  all  night.  God  bless  you  all  ! '  "With  this  he  sunk  into  a 
very  tranquil  sleep,  and,  indeed,  he  scarcely  afterwards  gave  any  sign  of  con- 
sciousness, except  for  an  instant  on  the  arrival  of  his  sons.  They,  on  learning 
that  the  scene  was  about  to  close,  obtained  a  new  leave  of  absence  from  their 
posts  ;  and  both  reached  Abbotsford  on  the  19th.  About  half  past  one,  r.  m.,  on 
the  21st  of  September,  Sir  Walter  breathed  his  last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his 
children.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  —  so  warm  that  every  window  was  wide  open, 
and  so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound  of  all  others  most  delicious  to  his  ear  — 
the  gentle  ripplo  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles  —  was  distinctly  audible,  as  we 
knelt  around  the  bed  ;  and  his  eldest  son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes."  —  Locr- 
nAUT's  Lifk  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


129 

Could  boastful  Thames  with  all  his  riches  buy, 
To  deck  the  strand  which  London  loads  with  gold, 

Sunshine  so  bright  —  such  purity  of  sky  — 
As  bless  thy  sultry  season  and  thy  cold  ? 

No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 

In  ancient  scrolls ;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree, 

And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invaders  from  barbarian  climes ; 

No  horrors  feigned  of  giant  or  of  god 

Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste, 
The  ravished  harvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined,  and  the  shrine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute. 

"  Yet,  0  Antiquity  !  "  the  stranger  sighs, 

"  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pall  upon  the  view ; 

The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 
"Where  all  is  fair  indeed  —  but  all  is  new." 

False  thought !  is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined  ? 

To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones  ? 
Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind, 

More  than  old  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones  ? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 

That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  Maker's  hand, 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 
9 


130 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth 

Glide  past  green  Eden  towards  the  unknown  south, 

Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  earth, 

And  kissed  the  ocean  with  his  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-born  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile  ! 

Thebes  and  the  pyramids  to  thee  are  young ; 
0  !  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle, 

Till  now  perchance  they  had  not  flowed  unsung. 


THE  FEUD   OF  THE  FLUTE-PLAYERS .* 

AN    ANCIENT  ROMAN   BALLAD,    RECENTLY  DISCOVERED. 

Before  the  war  -with  old  Tarentum,  twenty  years  or  thereabout, 
When  the  city  dwelt  serenely,  wealth  within  and  peace  without ; 
When  the  temple-doors  of  Janus  seemed  once  more  about  to  close, 
Suddenly  among  the  people  here  in  Rome  a  feud  arose. 

*  "Another  transaction  of  this  year  I  should  pass  over  as  trifling,  did  it  not 
seem  to  bear  some  relation  to  religion.  The  flute-players,  taking  offence  because 
they  had  been  prohibited  by  the  last  censors  from  holding  their  repasts  in  the 
temple  of  Jupiter,  which  had  been  customary  from  very  early  times,  went  off  in 
a  body  to  Tibur  ;  so  that  there  was  not  one  left  in  the  city  to  play  at  the  sacri- 
fices. The  religious  tendency  of  this  affair  gave  uneasiness  to  the  senate  ;  and 
they  sent  envoys  to  Tibur  to  endeavor  that  these  men  might  be  sent  back  to 
Rome.  The  Tiburtines  readily  promised  compliance,  and,  first  calling  them  into 
the  senate-house,  warmly  recommended  to  them  to  return  to  Rogio  ;  and  then, 
when  they  could  not  be  prevailed  on,  practised  on  them  an  artifice  not  ill  adapted 
to  the  dispositions  of  that  description  of  people  :  on  a  festival  day,  the}-  invited 
them  separately  to  their  several  houses,  apparently  with  the  intention  of  height- 
ening the  pleasure  of  their  feasts  with  music,  and  there  plied  them  with  wine, 
of  which  such  people  are  always  fond,  until  they  laid  them  asleep.  In  this  state 
of  insensibility  they  threw  them  into  waggons,  and  carried  them  to  Homo  :  nor 
did  they  know  anything  of  the  matter,  until,  tho  waggons  having  been  left  in 
the  Forum,  the  light  surprised  them,  still  heavily  sick  from  tho  debauch.  Tho 
people  then  crowded  about  them,  and,  on  their  consenting  at  length  to  stay, 
privilege  was  grunted  them  to  ramble  about  tho  city  in  full  dress,  with  music, 
and  the  license  which  is  now  practised  every  year  during  three  days.  And  that 
licenso  which  wo  see  practised  at  present,  and  the  right  of  being  fed  in  tho 
temple,  were  restored  to  those  who  played  at  tho  sacrifices." —  Livv,  Book  IX. 


132 

Quintus  Barbula  was  consul  —  but  the  cause  the  gods  concerned, 
More  than  that  for  which  the  palace  of  King  Priamus  was  burned. 

Thus  it  was  :  the  censor  Appius  passed  a  damnable  decree, 
That  the  Flute-Players  (an  order  slightly  prized  by  such  as  he). 
When  the  sacrifice  was  over,  from  the  temple  should  depart, 
Nor,  upon  the  relics  feasting,  thus  profane  their  sacred  art : 
From  the  days  of  Numa  downward,  this  their  privilege  had  been  ; 
Never  till  the  bigot  Appius  was  the  custom  deemed  a  sin. 
Frequent  came  the  jovial  suppers,  where  the  consecrated  wine 
Moistened  many  a  dainty  fragment,  juicy,  tender,  and  divine, — 
Many  a  sweet-bread  fat  and  holy,  such  as  Umbria's  pasture  yields, 
Flanks  that  once  beside  Clitumnus  roved  among  the  Tuscan  fields, 
Livers  lifted  from  the  altar,  free  from  blemish,  fair  and  sound, 
Tasting  of  the  blessed  omens  which  the  sage  Haruspex  found. 
Soon  as  the  majestic  Flamen  wTith  his  priests  had  left  the  fane, 
Such  delicious  morsels  tempted  Jove's  musicians  to  remain. 

Now  the  Appian  law  is  published,  posted  on  the  temple-gates, 

Sadly  each  musician  spells  it,  sadly  eyes  his  drooping  mates ; 

"  No  more  feasting,  no  more  drinking !  what  shall  give  us  heart  to 

pray?" 
Mournfully  to  one  another  every  visage  seemed  to  say  : 
"  'T  was  the  perquisites  that  mainly  paid  the  labor  of  our  lungs, 
Steaming  chines  and  ribs  delicious,  roasted  loins  and  luscious  tongues. 
Taking  these  away  is  taking  from  the  journeyman  his  hire, 
From  the  ox  his  wonted  fodder,  and  the  fuel  from  the  fire  : 
Could  the  flute  so  sweetly  warble,  save  our  breath  inspired  the  holes? 
As  to  flutes  our  breath  is  needful,  so  the  supper  to  our  souls." 

Grumbling  thus,  they  called  a  council,  o'er  some  Sabine  dull  and  dead, 
In  a  tap-room  by  the  Tiber,  at  the  sign  of  "  Tarquin's  Head." 


133 

There  the  veteran,  Corellus,  dark  as  Agamemnon,  rose, 
Sternly  silent,  for  a  moment  —  then  unfolded  thus  his  woes : 
"  Brothers !  unto  whom  our  mistress,  crowned  Euterpe,  gave  the  skill 
By  a  touch  to  call  Elysium  from  your  ebon  tubes  at  will, 
Fill  your  beechen  goblets  brimming,  vile  although  this  liquid  be. 
Drink  '  Despair  to  censor  Appius  ! '  deeply  drink,  then  list  to  me. 
August  comes,  the  thirsty  August,  and  the  holidays  are  nigh, 
When  to  Jove,  a  guiltless  offering,  must  the  annual  heifer  die ; 
When  from  every  town  in  Latium  all  the  pious  rustics  throng, 
Mingling  with  our  lofty  concert  and  the  sacred  smoke  their  song; 
How  without  our  aid,  inform  me,  can  the  festival  proceed  ? 
Vainly  must  the  wine  be  lavished,  vainly  must  the  victim  bleed ; 
Come,  we  '11  teach  these  niggard  Romans  unto  us  how  much  they  owe; 
Never  till  we  quit  the  city  will  the  fools  our  value  know. 
I  for  one,  like  Caius  Marcius,  here  abjure  my  native  land  ; 
Follow  me,  ye  gallant  minstrels  !  me,  the  leader  of  your  band  ! 
Let's  to  Antium  or  to  Tibur  —  if  our  country  shake  us  off, 
Well  I  know  the  men  of  Tibur  Phoebus'  children  will  not  scoff: 
But  by  Pan  !  the  god  of  shepherds  and  the  father  of  the  flute, 
While  among  this  thankless  people,  from  this  moment  I  am  mute." 

All  the  Flute-Players  assented ;  all,  upon  the  following  day, 
Gathered  in  the  busy  Forum  —  whispered,  but  forbore  to  play. 
Boys  and  women  muttered  round  them,  "  Why  are  our  musicians 

dumb  ? 
Why,  as  though  their  lips  were  palsied,  and  their  magic  fingers  numb  ? 
Come,  Sirs  !  play  the  march  of  Tullus;  or  Virginia's  funeral  dirge; 
Give  us  now  '  The  Gauls  are  coming ;'"  thus  their  various  choice 

they  urge; 
Till,  unmoved  by  prayers  or  curses,  from  the  tumult  they  retreat, 
Hissed  and  hooted  from  the  Forum,  scowling  down  the  sacred  street 


134 

Silent  walked  the  lone  procession, —  old  Corellus  went  the  first, — 
Doggedly  and  slowly  marching,  with  their  instruments  reversed. 
None  could  guess  their  secret  counsel,  though  the  reason  well  they 

knew 
Why  the  discontented  minstrels  thus  in  dumb  disdain  withdrew. 
Ev'n  as  at  the  games  assembled,  oft  the  young  spectators  grieve, 
If  the  clouds  in  black  battalions  gathering  o'er  them  they  perceive, 
Watch  with  troubled  eyes  the  welkin,  fearing  lest  the  tempest's  wrath 
Deluging  the  wide  arena,  turn  the  circus  to  a  bath ;       i 
Thus  as  from  the  city's  portal  toward  the  hills  the  players  passed, 
Every  little  child  was  mourning,  every  virgin's  face  o'ercast. 

All  the  citizens  with  sorrow  saw  depart  the  sullen  troop, 
Knowing  well,  for  want  of  music,  how  the  festival  must  droop  ; 
Shook  his  head  the  solemn  augur  ;  "  Evil  auspices  !  "  quoth  he; 
"  Wanting  music,  what  libation  to  the  gods  can  grateful  be  ? 
Heaven  is  always  hard  of  hearing,  when  the  lips  alone  beseech  : 
Harps  and  lyres  and  flutes  were  given  us,  to  exult  our  earthly  speech  ; 
Speech  we  use  among  each  other,  to  our  horses  and  our  hounds, 
But  the  dwellers  on  Olympus  only  hear  harmonious  sounds." 

Therefore  to  the  Sabine  senate  certain  envoys  promptly  went, 
Praying  that  the  renegados  duly  homeward  might  be  sent. 
Thus  the  Tiburtines  gave  answer  (Rome  and  they  were  friendly  then), 
"  Though  of  old  ye  stole  our  women,  we  '11  not  rob  you  of  your  men ; 
Tell  the  Fathers  and  the  Flamcn,  ere  the  fires  begin  to  burn, 
Ere  the  sacred  rite  commences,  the  deserters  will  return." 
Then  the  messengers  departed  ;  straightway  the  performers  all 
By  the  herald's  voice  were  summoned  to  the  ancient  council-hall, 
Where  the  gravest  and  the  gayest  of  the  ruling  elders  prayed 
Earnestly  that  Rome's  petition  by  her  sons  might  be  obeyed; 
Lest  their  festival  should  languish,  and  the  gods  with  evil  eye 
Mark  the  joyless  adoration  and  the  tuneless  pageantry. 


135 

But  in  vain  the  placid  spokesman  argued  with  the  stubborn  crew, 
"  Never  !  "  cried  the  stout  Corcllus ;  "  't  is  in  vain  the  people  sue ; 
Though  the  pontiff  and  the  consuls,  though  the  Capitolian  rock, 
Hither  crawling,  should  implore  us,  their  petition  I  would  mock ; 
Starve  us,  would  they  ?  frugal  Romans !  let  the  thrifty  censor  then 
Take  from  Jupiter  his  fatling  —  let  him  offer  heaven  a  hen; 
Haply  to  the  son  of  Saturn,  the  supremely  great  and  good, 
Fish  and  eggs,  and  simple  pot-herbs,  may  not  prove  unwelcome  food." 
Thus  the  embassy  they  flouted,  while  the  senate  smiling  said, 
"  'T  were  inhospitable  surely  to  refuse  our  friends  a  bed  ; 
Since  persuasion  cannot  stir  them,  here  with  us  they  must  remain  ; 
Let  them  here  assist  our  worship ;  Latium's  loss  is  Tibur's  gain." 

Now  the  holidays  in  Tibur  on  the  morrow  would  begin, 
One  day  sooner  than  the  custom  with  the  llomans  aye  had  been  ; 
And  the  Flute-Players  had  promised  in  the  public  place  to  play 
All  their  most  melodious  measures,  amorous,  and  sad,  and  gay  — 
Phrygian  marches,  Pyrrhic  hornpipes,  all  the  new  Athenian  airs,  — 
That  the  town  should  swear  was  never  music  to  be  matched  with 

theirs ; 
While  the  Tiburtines,  in  secret,  laid  among  themselves  a  plan 
To  return  the  tuneful  strangers  ere  the  Roman  rites  began. 
So  upon  the  joyous  morrow,  when  the  sacrifice  was  o'er, 
And  the  players  had  indulged  them  till  their  finger-ends  were  sore, 
When  the  matrons  and  the  damsels  one  by  one  the  square  forsook, 
Every  gentleman  in  Tibur  to  his  house  a  minstrel  took. 

Proud  was  every  hungry  piper  to  be  made  a  noble's  guest ; 
Gladly,  after  so  much  blowing,  tasted  the  delight  of  rest. 
Singly  and  in  pairs  they  scattered  here  and  there  about  the  town, 
Couched  and  revelled  at  the  banquet,  poured  the  potent  pledges 
down ; 


136 

Well  they  paid  their  morning's  labor,  deeply  drank  and  largely  fed , 
Better  wine  they  found  in  Tibur  than  was  sold  at  "  Tarquin's  Head."' 

Soon  as  every  vanquished  artist,  tumbling  from  the  festive  board, 
Heavy  with  his  wine  and  slumber,  on  the  marble  pavement  snored, 
Careful  hands  conveyed  them  quickly,  and  as  gently  as  they  could, 
Toward  the  market,  where  some  wine-carts,  waiting  for  them,  empty 

stood; 
Snugly  in  the  straw  they  laid  them,  sweetly  dozing,  side  by  side, 
"  Forward  to  the  seven-hilled  city,  march  ! "  the  merry  townsmen 

cried ; 
So,  by  star-light,  after  nightfall,  from  the  Latin  Gate  they  start ; 
"  Tibur  to  the  Romans,  Greeting  ;  "  this  was  writ  on  every  cart. 

4 

Xot  till  daybreak  did  the  tumbrils  at  the  Colline  Port  arrive  ; 

Only  dogs  and  early  swallows,  and  the  sentry,  seemed  alive. 

"  Wherefore,"  growled  the  guard,  unknowing  what  within  the  litter 

lay, 

"  Wherefore  bring  your  carrion  hither  ?  —  trow  ye  't  is  a  market-day  ? 
Gods  !  if  this  were  told  the  censor,  little  cause  ye  'd  have  to  grin  !  " 
"  Beasts  for  Jupiter,"  they  answered,  tittering  as  they  entered  in. 
Straight  they  took  them  to  the  forum  ;  there  they  left  them  till  the 

sun, 
Peeping  o'er  Mount  Esquilinus,  might  arouse  them,  one  by  one. 

Rose  the  town  betimes  that  morning ;  toward  the  Forum  swarmed 

the  boys ; 
Trumpets  brayed  and  crashed  the  cymbals  —  all  was  merriment  and 

noise ; 
Farmers  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  mariners  from  Ostia's  port, 
Scarlet  caps  and  Alban  jackets,  gathering  to  the  place  of  sport. 
Soon  the  voices  and  the  sunshine  woke  the  pale  and  haggard  crew, 
Sick  and  feverish,  faint  and  shivering  with  the  dullness  of  the  dew. 


137 

Round  about  with  temples  throbbing,  aching  and  bewildered  eyes, 
Long  they  gazed,  and  on  each  other  stared  with  idiot-like  surprise. 
Little  did  the  crowd's  derision  and  their  own  wild  looks  explain 
How  they  came  there,  what  the  cause  was  of  their  paleness  and  their 

pain. 
Each,  that  he  had  supped  in  Tibur,  would  his  very  lungs  have  staked  ; 
How  then  was  it  that  in  Latium,  in  the  Forum  there,  they  waked  ? 

Then  the  populace,  delighted  with  the  jest,  to  vex  them  more, 
Brought  a  lying  vintner  forward,  who  "  by  Vesta's  altar  "  swore 
He  had  seen  them  all  carousing  there  in  Rome  the  night  before ; 
While  another  knave  pretended  to  have  met  them,  loose  of  tread, 
Reeling  homeward  after  midnight  from  the  sign  of  "  Tarquin's  Head." 
Shame  forbade  all  further  question  :  "  Naught  but  that  vile  tavern's 

juice," 
Cried  Corellus,  "  such  confusion  in  our  senses  could  produce." 
Musing,  toward  the  fane  they  hastened,  and  with  more  than  wonted 

art 
Stirred  the  fountains  of  devotion  in  the  whole  assembly's  heart ; 
Never  in  Apulia's  orchards  did  the  nightingales  of  June 
Gurgle  forth  so  dulcet  anthems  to  the  stillness  of  the  moon ; 
And  the  censor  in  his  wisdom,  just  beginning  to  suspect 
How  by  fast  and  thin  potations  minstrelsy  and  mirth  are  checked, 
Ruled  that  thrice  a  month  the  players  might  a  solemn  supper  hold, 
Thrice  a  year,  in  full  procession,  march  in  crimson  clad  and  gold : 
So  the  famous  Feud  was  ended,  and  the  secret  long  was  kept, 
How  they  woke  within  the  Forum,  who  in  Tibur's  town  had  slept. 


GHETTO  DI  ROMA. 

"  Sol  chi  non  lascia  eredita  d  'affetti 

Poca  gioia  ha  dell  'urna."  —  Ugo  Foscolo. 

Whoever,  led  by  worship  of  the  past, 
Or  love  of  beauty,  even  in  its  wane, 
Wastes  a  sweet  season  of  delightful  sadness 
In  wandering  mid  the  wilderness  of  Rome, 
May  see  —  as  I  did,  many  a  summer  since  — 
A  wretched  quarter  of  the  sacred  city, 
Where  the  poor  dregs  of  Israel's  children  dwell. 

'T  is  called  the  Ghetto,  and  the  pious  townsman 
Shuns  it,  unless  his  piety  lie  deep 
Enough  to  teach  him  not  to  turn  aside 
From  any  form  of  human  brotherhood  : 
Hard  by  the  muddy  Tiber's  idle  flow, 
Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  Vatican, 
Yet  within  sound,  almost,  of  choirs  that  chant 
Morning  and  evening  to  a  Christian  organ, 
Its  prison-like  and  ragged  houses  rise. 
A  miry  street  leads  through  the  unholy  realm, 
Where  no  saint's  chapel,  perfect  in  proportion, 
Breaks  the  long  ugliness  with  one  fair  front; 


139 

Nor  ever  open  door  breathes  odorous  fumes 

Of  silver  censers  on  the  passers  by. 

Here  hymns  are  never  heard,  nor  sacring  bell, 

Nor  benediction  from  benignant  lips, 

Nor  whispered  aves  to  the  cold-eyed  Virgin. 

The  cowled  procession  brings  no  tapers  here, 

With  crucifix  and  banner-bearing  boys, 

To  take  the  taint  out  of  the  Hebrew  air. 

At  either  entrance  of  the  ill-paved  way 

A  gate  as  massive  as  the  Sciean  was, 

And  grim  as  that  through  which  the  Tuscan  passed 

On  his  dread  journey  to  the  fires  of  hell, 

Swings  on  its  hinges  till  the  set  of  sun, 

And  then  is  bolted  till  he  glare  again. 

Thus  dawn  and  night  to  the  poor  captives  come 

Made  by  the  barring  only  and  unbarring 

Of  the  spiked  portals ;  for  the  blessed  ray 

Pierces  no  lattice,  gilds  no  threshold  here. 

The  gloomy  shops  a  mingled  steam  exhale 

Of  withered  greens,  and  musty  grocers'  ware, 

And  such  rank  offal  as  the  meaner  sort 

Of  curs  will  mumble  when  their  lent  seems  long. 

Here  at  high  noon  the  petty  trade  proceeds 

By  the  dim  tallow  which  the  greasy  counter 

Receives  in  minted  drops,  —  the  only  coin, 

Save  that  of  oaths,  which  is  abundant  here. 

It  chanced  that  —  anno  urbis  conditio  — 
Some  time  'twixt  ltomulus  and  Gregory  — 
A  noble  youth,  upon  a  summer's  eve, 
Pressed  through  the  Ghetto,  towards  the  Capitol ; 


140 

And  glancing  upward  in  his  hasty  walk, 

Saw  at  a  window,  looking  sadly  down, 

A  maiden  brighter  than  the  vesper  star, 

Already  lighted  in  the  purple  heaven. 

He  marked  the  star,  and  knew  the  hour  was  late ; 

He  heard  the  bell  that  warned  the  lagging  stranger 

The  time  was  come  for  Christians  to  be  gone ; 

But  he  remained,  still  walking  to  and  fro, 

Gazing  on  her,  who  frowned  not  at  his  gaze. 

The  smirched  mechanic  at  his  sill  was  sitting, 

The  noise  of  gossips  at  the  corner  rose, 

The  broker  left  his  shop,  the  scribe  his  supper, 

And  publican  and  pharisee  came  forth 

To  chat  of  profit  in  the  dusky  light ; 

A  jargon  filled  the  air,  —  the  gates  were  shut. 

Thus  was  the  noble  Roman  for  the  night 
Locked  in  ignoble  durance  ;   yet  can  beauty 
Transmute  the  common  soil  from  which  it  springs 
To  sands  of  gold  —  the  Ghetto  seemed  Golconda. 
To  him,  the  hovel  where  that  jewel  shone 
Appeared  a  Persian  palace.     Underneath 
The  radiant  window  where  she  sat  enshrined, 
Her  father  —  a  gross  cub  of  Reuben's  tribe  — 
Kept  a  small  wine-shop  where  his  brother  sots 
Cheered  the  dull  nights  with  cups  of  sour  Velletri. 
'T  was  not  an  inn,  —  he  did  not  furnish  beds, 
Save  what  his  guests  beneath  his  tables  found. 
Yet,  entering  here,  the  gentle  stranger  plied 
The  housekeeper  with  solid  arguments 
For  shelter  till  the  morning.     Judas  melted ; 
The  ducats  won  him  —  like  his  ancestor, 


141 

Who  sold  his  soul,  he  would  have  sold  his  daughter, 
Could  he  have  done  so,  —  for  a  piece  of  silver. 

Yet  let  no  stain  upon  the  virgin  fall  ; 
The  young  patrician  found  in  her  a  pearl 
Such  as  the  husband  of  Lucretia  had. 
She  yielded  to  his  love,  but  not  his  longing, 
And  iu  a  week  became  the  Roman's  wife. 
What  scandal  now  among  the  gentry  flies ! 
Still  'mid  the  most  unbridled  raging  fastest, 
For  calumny's  ill  fire,  so  quick  to  catch, 
Kindleth  most  readily  the  lightest  tinder. 
T  is  epicurean  too,  and  loves  to  prey 
On  dainty  victims,  —  turns  from  base  defects, 
To  gorge  on  blemishes  in  better  blood. 

This  lover,  who,  descending  from  his  birth, 
Both  birth  and  creed  had  stained  by  such  a  choice, 
Was  the  best  scion  of  an  ancient  house, 
Whose  name  —  Corsini  —  was  the  Pontiffs  own. 
The  sinless  regent  of  the  Lateran 
Expostulated,  scolded,  fretted,  fumed,  — 
'T  was  mentioned,  privately,  he  swore  a  little,  — 
For  cursing  is  a  papal  perquisite  : 
But  anger's  fury  is  no  match  for  love's  — 
His  last  dread  weapon,  excommunication, 
Was  launched  in  vain, — -his  graceless  nephew  laughed, 
Repaid  the  scoffs  of  his  compeers  with  scorn, 
And  with  his  wife,  more  dear  to  him  than  sceptres, 
Fled  to  his  castle  near  the  sea,  not  far 
From  the  frontier  of  Naples,  —  shining  Anxur. 
There,  wholly  happy  in  her  love,  he  dwelt 


142 

Almost  forgetful  of  the  world  beyond, 

Save  when  at  times,  to  make  his  home  still  dearer, 

In  his  felucca,  o'er  the  summer  ocean, 

He  sailed  with  her  to  gay  Parthenope. 

But  brief  their  absence,  —  each  was  heaven  to  each, 

And  pleasure  vainly  wooed  them  to  a  brighter. 

In  games  and  gardening,  —  sports  in  wood  and  field, 

Books  and  the  sweet  companionship  of  song,  — 

Smoothly  their  silken  web  of  life  was  woven, 

And  the  seven  hills  lived  only  in  remembrance. 

Now  the  sad  passage  of  my  story  comes. 
The  duke  was  forth  upon  the  hills  a  hunting ; 
The  boar  was  famous,  —  they"  had  tracked  him  long,  - 
The  terror  of  the  hills,  —  the  shepherd's  dream  : 
A  beast  like  that  which  in  thy  market-place 
Stands,  my  dear  Florence !  ugly  and  of  brass. 
Full  hard  the  lordly  huntsman  pressed  his  game, 
And  swiftly  bounding,  with  a  careless  leap,  — 
His  hot  veins  dancing,  full  of  ruddy  life, — 
Hallooing,  glowing,  cheering  on  his  riders, 
And  thinking  more  of  danger  to  the  boar 
Than  his  own  safety,  —  at  a  sudden  turn, 
The  faithless  joint  of  his  o'er-labored  steed 
Failed  him,  —  he  stumbled,  and  his  lord  was  thrown. 
"  Breathe  on  me,  Kachel !  —  Bear  me  to  my  lady !  " 
Were  the  sole  words  his  bloodless  lips  could  murmur ; 
His  spine  was  broken,  and  his  llachcl  saw  him 
Borne  homeward,  hanging  like  a  vacant  sack 
On  some  poor  mule  returning  from  the  mill. 

The  castle  dates  its  ruin  from  that  day  : 
Grief  in  the  hall  makes  trouble  in  the  hamlet,  — 


143 

The  manor  sickened  in  its  master's  loss, 
Thrift  and  content  and  plenty  fled  the  village, 
Which  seemed  joint  widow  with  its  weeping  lady. 
But  when  't  is  stormy  weather  in  the  south, 
The  sunshine  laughs  upon  the  northern  hills, 
And  the  same  rain  that  beats  one  harvest  down 
Gives  fulness,  joy  and  ripeness,  to  another. 
Distance  makes  music  of  discordant  sounds, 
As  heard  afar  the  town's  confusing  roar 
Turns  to  a  hum  that  lulls  the  Dryad's  ear. 

Thus  to  the  hearing  of  the  wolf  of  Rome 
Came  the  glad  tidings  of  his  kinsman's  death, 
For  the  dull  wail  that  thrilled  the  Apennine 
Changed  to  rejoicing  as  it  reached  St.  Peter's. 
Low  on  his  knees  the  grateful  sovereign  knelt, 
And  thanked  the  Almighty  for  so  just  a  judgment : 
His  counsellors,  cool,  meditative  men, 
Spurred  on  his  own  opinion,  and  agreed 
'T  were  lenity  most  criminal  to  spare 
The  guilty  cause  and  partner  of  such  sin. 
So  by  a  savage  edict,  such  as  Herod, 
That  king  in  Jewry,  might  have  blushed  to  utter, 
The  lands  and  fastnesses  of  fallen  Corsini, 
Orchards,  woods,  meads,  and  all  the  herds  therein, 
Were  seized,  and  confiscated  to  the  See. 
But,  since  the  estate  had  been  so  long  polluted, 
The  interdiction  of  the  church  was  added, 
That  none  should  dwell  there,  save  unwholesome  things - 
The  daily  lizard  and  the  nightly  owl, 
And  the  lean  foxes  of  Maremma's  fen. 
So  the  fields  pined,  —  the  stagnant  vapor  spread 


144 

From  green  Pontina,  poisoning  all  the  air, 
And  Love's  bright  region  grew  a  wilderness. 

But  for  the  woman  —  what  became  of  her  ? 
The  papal  Switzers,  with  unpitying  hands, 
Tore  her  babes  from  her,  —  thrust  her  from  the  chamber, 
Which  upon  earth  had  been  her  land  of  promise, 
And  happy  haven  of  fulfilment  too, 
And,  spitting  on  her  as  upon  a  scorpion, 
Bade  her  go  crawl  upon  her  knees  to  Rome, 
Become  a  Christian,  and  implore  that  Virgin, 
Of  whose  own  stock  her  Hebrew  fathers  came, 
To  pardon  her  that  she  was  born  a  Jewess. 

So  barefoot,  faint,  frenzied  with  fear  and  sorrow, 
She  followed  those  rough  pikemen  of  the  Pope, 
Till  their  steeds  bore  them  from  her  aching  sight. 
And  still  she  walked,  for  many  a  sultry  day, 
Bleeding,  and  dampening  with  continual  drops 
Of  anguish  and  fatigue,  from  eyes  and  pores 
Gushing  unchecked,  the  pestilential  path,, 
That  marks  the  marshes  with  a  line  of  dust. 
A  crust  thrown  at  her  from  a  passing  cart 
"Was  all  her  sustenance,  save  the  bitter  scum 
Skimmed  from  the  puddles  where  she  slaked  her  thirst ; 
Yet  scarce  she  halted  till  the  cupola 
Pose  in  the  distance  like  a  part  of  heaven, 
The  inner  vault  of  the  sky's  double  dome,  — 
'Twas  her  own  city  — yet  her  enemies' ! 

Closed  was  the  gate,  —  the  gate  of  St.  Sebastian, — 
So  early  was  it  when  she  reached  the  walls  ; 


145 

And,  sinking  on  the  grass,  she  slept  till  dawn. 
Soon  as  the  sentinel,  with  punctual  hand, 
Hung  up  the  keys  and  took  his  carbine  down, 
And  ere  the  drowsy  casements  were  unfolded, 
She  plodded  on,  through  streets  well  known  of  old, 
Towards  the  dull  Ghetto  and  her  father's  house. 
But  you  —  0,  you,  whose  fancies  only  paint 
Delightful  pictures,  and  from  gay  romance 
Have  heard  the  pleasure  of  return,  —  the  bliss 
Of  happy  children  meeting  with  their  parents,  — 
And  all  the  raptures  of  revived  affections, 
Shift  now  imagination's  helm  a  little ; 
Indulge  no  vision  of  a  loved  repentant, 
Forgiven  and  smiling  at  a  father's  hearth. 
But  see,  instead,  the  lady  of  a  duke, 
The  titled  mother  of  two  Christian  boys, 
Thrust  from  her  delicate  repose  of  life, 
Where  servants,  the  vaunt-couriers  of  her  wishes, 
Nursed  her  fastidious  affluence  of  comfort, 
Into  that  noisome  burrow  of  the  Jews, 
Amid  the  filth  and  want  and  rougli  disuse 
Of  all  the  courtesies  and  gentle  customs 
That  ring  with  velvet  tires  the  wheels  of  life. 

But  this  she  could  have  borne ;   all  this  was  nothing 
To  the  rude  greeting  of  an  envious  race 
Who  called  her  recreant  —  gloried  in  her  downfall, 
Jeered  the  soiled  remnants  of  her  silk  attire, 
And,  wittily  malignant,  oft  contrasted 
Her  jewelled  fingers  with  her  bleeding  feet. 
Yet,  lest  the  holy  Father,  in  his  wrath, 
Might  think  it  meet  to  drag  her  from  this  den, 
10 


146 

And  plunge  her  in  some  worse  one  of  his  own, 

Here,  half  in  pity,  half  in  punishment, 

Was  she  concealed  and  from  the  daylight  barred, 

Fed  with  rank  bits  and  beaten  like  a  drudge ; 

Till  Reason,  sapped  by  inly  gnawing  fears 

Of  her  poor  children's  fate,  and  stunned,(  as  ?t  were, 

By  that  vast  fall  from  blessedness  to  bondage, 

Heeled  from  its  throne,  and  left  her  lunatic. 

So  to  the  dungeon  for  the  mad  they  haled  her, 

And  chained  her  soft  limbs  'mid  the  rotten  straw, 

Wet  with  white  froth  from  a  dead  maniac's  lips. 

But  some  sweet  angel  stole  her  sense  away, 

And  nothing  knew  she  of  the  jailer's  lash ; 

For  with  her  mind  her  feeling  too  had  fled, 

The  very  fountain  of  her  tears  was  frozen. 

Dumbly  she  nestled  there  —  a  thing  of  ice  — 

Until  she  melted,  like  a  drop  of  dew, 

Into  the  sunshine  and  the  air  of  heaven. 

'Twas  whispered,  then,  that  by  the  Pope's  command 

Her  two  fair  boys  were  burnt,  —  and  'twas  believed,  - 

For  in  that  time  the  church  was  famed  for  rigor. 

But  'twas  a  fiction,  — many  years  ago, 
Amid  the  galley-slaves  together  chained, 
Who  delve  all  day  the  rubbish  of  the  Forum, 
And  keep  the  channel  of  the  Tiber  free, 
Two  haggard  men  were  fettered,  leg  to  leg, 
Who  still  in  company  walked,  worked  and  rested, 
Like  the  twin  monster-brothers  of  Si  am. 
They  too  were  brothers,  —  by  their  fellow-slaves 
One  was  called  Barabbas  and  one  Iscariot. 
I  saw  them  once  in  Caracalla's  Baths,  — 


147 


Their  white  teeth  glaring  from  their  idiot  faces, 

And  Folly  shining  in  their  snaky  eyes ! 

Few  knew  their  story ;  but  't  was  told  to  me 

With  their  true  name,  —  their  true  name  was  Corsini. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK. 


combien  d'hommes  ont  regarde  cetto  ombre 

en  Egypte  et  a  Rome  1  Chateaubriand. 


Homewakd  turning  from  the  music  which  had  so  entranced  my  brain, 
That  the  way  I  scarce  remembered  to  the  Pincian  Hill  again,  — 
Nay,  was  willing  to  forget  it  underneath  a  moon  so  fair, 
In  a  solitude  so  sacred,  and  so  summer-like  an  air,  — 
Came  I  to  the  side  of  Tiber,  hardly  conscious  where  I  stood, 
Till  I  marked  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  venerable  flood. 

Rome  lay  doubly  dead  around  me,  sunk  in  silence  calm  and  deep  : 
'Twas  the  death  of  desolation  —  and  the  nightly  one  of  sleep. 
Dreams  alone,  and  recollections,  peopled  now  the  solemn  hour, 
Such  a  spot  and  such  a  season  well  might  wake  the  Fancy's  power : 
Yet  no  monumental  fragment,  storied  arch  or  temple  vast, 
Mid  the  mean,  plebeian  buildings  loudly  whispered  of  the  Past. 

Tethered  by  the  shore,  some  barges  hid  the  wave's  august  repose  ; 
Petty  sheds  of  humble  merchants  nigh  the  Campus  Martius  rose  : 
Hardly  could  the  dingy  Thamis,  when  his  tide  is  ebbing  low, 
Life's  dull  scene  in  colder  colors  to  the  homesick  exile  show. 
Winding  from  the  vulgar  prospect,  through  a  labyrinth  of  lanes, 
Forth  I  stepped  upon  the  Corso  where  its  greatness  Home  retains. 

Yet  it  was  not  ancient  glory,  though  the  midnight  radiance  fell 
Soft  on  many  a  princely  mansion,  many  a  dome's  majestic  swell ; 


149 

Though,  from  some  hushed  corner  gushing,  oft  a  modern  fountain 

gleamed, 
Where  the  marble  and  the  waters  in  their  freshness  equal  seemed  : 
What  though  open  courts  unfolded  columns  of  Corinthian  mould  ? 
Beautiful  it  was  —  but  altered  !  naught  bespake  the  Rome  of  old. 

So,  regardless  of  the  grandeur,  passed  I  towards  the  Northern  Gate ; 
All  around  were  shining  gardens  —  churches  glittering,  yet  sedate ; 
Heavenly  bright  the  broad  enclosure  !  but  the  o'erwhelming  silence 

brought 
Stillness  to  mine  own  heart's  beating,  with  a  moment's  truce  of 

thought, 
And  I  started  as  I  found  me  walking,  ere  I  was  aware, 
O'er  the  Obelisk's  tall  shadow,  on  the  pavement  of  the  square. 

Ghost-like  seemed  it  to  address  me,  and  conveyed  me  for  a  while, 
Backward,  through  a  thousand  ages,  to  the  borders  of  the  Nile ; 
Where,  for  centuries,  every  morning  saw  it  creeping,  long  and  dun, 
O'er  the  stones  perchance  of  Memphis,  or  the  City  of  the  Sun. 
Kingly  turrets  looked  upon  it  —  pyramids  and  sculptured  fanes; 
Towers  and  palaces  have  mouldered,  but  the  shadow  still  remains. 

Out  of  that  lone  tomb  of  Egypt,  o'er  the  seas  the  trophy  flew ; 

Here  the  eternal  apparition  met  the  millions'  daily  view. 

Virgil's  foot  has  touched  it  often  —  it  hath  kissed  Octavia's  face  — 

Royal  chariots  have  rolled  o'er  it,  in  the  frenzy  of  the  race, 

When  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  valiant,  mid  the  thronged  arena 

strove, 
In  the  days  of  good  Augustus,  and  the  dynasty  of  Jove. 

Herds  are  feeding  in  the  Forum,  as  in  old  Evandcr's  time ; 
Tumbled  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  all  the  towers  that  sprang  sublime. 


150 

Strange  !  that  what  seemed  most  inconstant  should  the  most  abiding 

prove ; 
Strange !  that  what  is  hourly  moving  no  mutation  can  remove  : 
Ruined  lies  the  cirque  !  the  chariots,  long  ago,  have  ceased  to  roll  — 
Even  the  Obelisk  is  broken  —  but  the  shadow  still  is  whole. 

"What  is  Fame  !  if  mightiest  empires  leave  so  little  mark  behind, 
How  much  less  must  heroes  hope  for,  in  the  wreck  of  humankind  ! 
Less  than  even  this  darksome  picture,  which  I  tread  beneath  my  feet. 
Copied  by  a  lifeless  moonbeam  on  the  pebbles  of  the  street ; 
Since,  if  Caesar's  best  ambition,  living,  was  to  be  renowned, 
What  shall  Caesar  leave  behind  him,  save  the  shadow  of  a  sound  ? 


UPON  A  LADY,  SINGING. 

Oft  as  my  lady  sang  for  me 
That  song  of  the  lost  one  that  sleeps  by  the  sea, 
Of  the  grave  on  the  rock,  and  the  cypress  tree, 
Strange  was  the  pleasure  that  over  me  stole, 
For  't  was  made  of  old  sadness  that  lives  in  my  soul. 

So  still  grew  my  heart  at  each  tender  word, 
That  the  pulse  in  my  bosom  scarcely  stirred, 
And  I  hardly  breathed,  but  only  heard  : 

Where  was  I  ?  —  not  in  the  world  of  men, 

Until  she  awoke  me  with  silence  again. 

Like  the  smell  of  the  vine,  when  its  early  bloom 
Sprinkles  the  green  lane  with  sunny  perfume, 
Such  a  delicate  fragrance  filled  the  room  : 
Whether  it  came  from  the  vine  without, 
Or  arose  from  her  presence,  I  dwell  in  doubt. 

Light  shadows  played  on  the  pictured  wall 
From  the  maples  that  fluttered  outside  the  hall, 
And  hindered  the  daylight  —  yet,  ah  !  not  all; 

Too  little  for  that  all  the  forest  would  be,  — 

Such  a  sunbeam  she  was,  and  is,  to  me  ! 

When  my  sense  returned,  as  the  song  was  o'er, 

I  fain  would  have  said  to  her,  "  Sing  it  once  more,' 

But  soon  as  she  smiled  my  wish  I  forbore  : 

Music  enough  in  her  look  I  found, 

And  the  hush  of  her  lip  seemed  sweet  as  the  sound. 


TO  A  LADY, 

■WITH  A  IIEAD  OF  POPE  PIUS   NINTH. 

My  gift  went  freighted  with  a  hope,  — 

Slight  bark  upon  a  doubtful  sea  ! 
Yet,  under  convoy  of  the  Pope, 
Successful  may  the  venture  be  ; 
For  thus  good  Pius  whispered  me, 
"  Mi  fili,  Benedicite  !  " 

His  blessing  now  I  will  transfer 

To  thee,  although  I  hardly  know 
What  Latin  form  appropriate  were,  — 
"  Cor  meum  !  "  —  shall  I  call  thee  so  ? 
No,  let  the  learned  language  be 
But,  sweetheart,  Benedicite ! 

Your  cardinals  arc  blooming  yet, 

Pride  of  the  brook  !  the  meadow's  gem  ! 
So,  ere  his  sun  be  wholly  set, 
I  send,  in  due  return  for  them, 

The  Pope  —  hark,  love,  he  says  to  thee, 
"  My  daughter,  Benedicite  !  " 


153  v 

0,  take  his  blessing  then,  —  for  ne'er 

Did  evil  come  from  holy  touch  ; 
A  righteous  man's  effectual  prayer, 
As  the  Saint  says,  availeth  much,  — 
So,  for  this  once,  a  Papist  be, 
Nor  scorn  his  Benedicite  ! 


STANZAS. 

"  We  arc  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of." 

I. 

We  have  forgot  what  we  have  been, 
And  what  we  are  we  little  know  ; 

We  fancy  new  events  begin, 
But  all  has  happened  long  ago. 


Through  many  a  verse  life's  poem  flows, 
But  still,  though  seldom  marked  by  men, 

At  times  returns  the  constant  close  ; 
Still  the  old  chorus  comes  ajrain. 


The  childish  grief,  the  boyish  fear, 

The  hope  in  manhood's  breast  that  burns; 

The  doubt,  the  transport  and  the  tear, 
Each  mood,  each  impulse,  oft  returns. 


Before  mine  infant  eyes  had  hailed 
The  new-born  glory  of  the  day, 

When  the  first  wondrous  morn  unveiled 
The  breathing  world  that  round  me  lay : 


155 

v. 

The  same  strange  darkness  o'er  my  brain 
Folded  its  close,  mysterious  wings, 

The  ignorance  of  joy  or  pain, 

That  each  recurring  midnight  brings. 

O  O  O 

VI. 

And  oft  my  feelings  make  me  start, 
Like  footprints  on  some  desert  shore, 

As  if  the  chambers  of  my  heart 

Had  heard  their  shadowy  step  before. 

VII. 

So,  looking  into  thy  fond  eyes, 

Strange  memories  come  to  me,  as  though 
Somewhere — perchance  in  Paradise  — 

I  had  adored  thee  long  ago. 


TO  A  LADY, 

WITH  A  HEAD  OF  DIANA. 

My  Christmas  gifts  were  few  —  to  one 
A  fan,  to  keep  love's  flame  alive, 

Since  even  to  the  constant  sun 
Twilight  and  setting  must  arrive. 

And  to  another  —  she  who  sent 

That  splendid  toy,  an  empty  purse  — 

I  gave,  though  not  for  satire  meant, 
An  emptier  thing  —  a  scrap  of  verse. 

For  thee  I  chose  Diana's  head, 

Graved  by  a  cunning  hand  in  Rome, 

To  whose  dim  shop  my  feet  were  led 
By  sweet  remembrances  of  home. 

'T  was  with  a  kind  of  pagan  feeling 
That  I  my  little  treasure  bought,  — 

My  mood  I  care  not  for  concealing,  — 
"  Great  is  Diana  ! "  was  my  thought. 

Methought,  howe'er  we  change  our  creeds, 
Whether  to  Jove  or  God  we  bend, 

By  various  paths  religion  leads 
All  spirits  to  a  single  end. 


157 

The  goddess  of  the  woods  and  fields, 
The  healthful  huntress,  undefiled, 

Now  with  her  fabled  brother  yields 
To  sinless  Mary  and  her  child. 

But  chastity  and  truth  remain 
Still  the  same  virtues  as  of  yore, 

"Whether  we  kneel  in  Christian  fane 
Or  old  mythologies  adore. 

What  though  the  symbol  were  a  lie,  — 
Since  the  ripe  world  hath  wiser  grown, 

If  any  goodness  grew  thereby, 
I  will  not  scorn  it  for  mine  own. 

So  I  selected  Dian's  head 

From  out  the  artist's  glittering  show ; 
And  this  shall  be  my  gift,  I  said, 

To  one  that  bears  the  silver  bow. 

To  her  whose  quiet  life  has  been 
The  mirror  of  as  calm  a  heart ; 

Above  temptation  from  the  din 
Of  cities,  and  the  pomp  of  art. 

Who  still  hath  spent  her  active  days 
Cloistered  amid  her  happy  hills, 

Not  ignorant  of  worldly  ways, 

But  loving  more  the  woods  and  rills. 

And  thou  art  she  to  whom  I  give 
This  image  of  the  virgin  queen, 

Praying  that  thou,  like  her,  mayst  live 
Thrice  blest !    in  bein<j  seldom  seen. 


STEUART'S  BURIAL. 

The  bier  is  ready  and  the  mourners  wait, 
The  funeral  car  stands  open  at  the  gate. 
Bring  down  our  brother  ;  bear  him  gently,  too  ; 
So,  friends,  he  always  bore  himself  with  you. 
Down  the  sad  staircase,  from  the  darkened  room, 
For  the  first  time,  he  comes  in  silent  gloom : 
Who  ever  left  this  hospitable  door 
Without  his  smile  and  warm  "  good-bye,"  before  ? 
Now  we  for  him  the  parting  word  must  say 
To  the  mute  threshold  whence  we  bear  his  clay. 

The  slow  procession  lags  upon  the  road,  — 

'T  is  heavy  hearts  that  make  the  heavy  load ; 

And  all  too  brightly  glares  the  burning  noon 

On  the  dark  pageant  —  be  it  ended  soon  ! 

The  quail  is  piping  and  the  locust  sings,  — 

0  grief,  thy  contrast  with  these  joyful  things  ! 

What  pain  to  see,  amid  our  task  of  woe, 

The  laughing  river  keep  its  wonted  flow ! 

His  hawthorns  there  —  his  proudly-waving  corn  — 

And  all  so  flourishing  —  and  so  forlorn  ! 

His  new-built  cottage,  too,  so  fairly  planned, 

Whose  chimney  ne'er  shall  smoke  at  his  command. 


159 

Two  sounds  were  heard,  that  on  the  spirit  fell 
With  sternest  moral  —  one  the  passing  bell ! 
The  other  told  the  history  of  the  hour, 
Life's  fleeting  triumph,  mortal  pride  and  power. 
Two  trains  there  met  —  the  iron-sinewed  horse 
And  the  black  hearse  —  the  engine  and  the  corse  ! 
Haste  on  your  track,  you  fiery-winged  steed  ! 
I  hate  your  presence  and  approve  your  speed  ; 
Fly !  with  your  eager  freight  of  breathing  men, 
And  leave  these  mourners  to  their  march  again ! 
Swift  as  my  wish,  they  broke  their  slight  delay, 
And  life  and  death  pursued  their  separate  way. 

The  solemn  service  in  the  church  was  held, 
Bringing  strange  comfort  as  the  anthem  swelled, 
And  back  we  bore  him  to  his  long  repose, 
Where  his  great  elm  its  evening  shadow  throws,  — 
A  sacred  spot !     There  often  he  hath  stood, 
Showed  us  his  harvests  and  pronounced  them  good ; 
And  we  may  stand,  with  eyes  no  longer  dim, 
To  watch  new  harvests  and  remember  him. 

Peace  to  thee,  Steuart  !  —  and  to  us  !  the  All-Wise 

Would  ne'er  have  found  thee  readier  for  the  skies  : 

In  His  large  love  He  kindly  waits  the  best, 

The  fittest  mood,  to  summon  every  guest ; 

So,  in  his  prime,  our  dear  companion  went, 

When  the  young  soul  is  easy  to  repent : 

No  long  purgntion  shall  he  now  require 

In  black  remorse  —  in  penitential  fire  ; 

From  what  few  frailties  might  have  stained  his  morn 

Our  tears  may  wash  him  pure  as  he  was  born. 


EPITAPH  UPON   MY  FRIEND,   DAVID   STEUART  ROBERTSON'. 
From  his  grave-stone  at  Lancaster. 

Here  Steuart  sleeps :  and  should  some  brother  Scot 
Wander  this  way,  and  pause  upon  the  spot, 
He  need  not  ask,  now  life's  poor  show  is  o'er, 
What  arms  he  carried,  or  what  plaid  he  wore  : 
So  small  the  value  of  illustrious  birth, 
Brought  to  this  solemn,  last  assay  of  earth  ! 
Yet,  unreproved,  his  epitaph  might  say 
A  royal  soul  was  wrapt  in  Steuart's  clay, 
And  generous  actions  consecrate  his  mound, 
•  More  than  all  titles,  though  of  kingly  sound. 


TO    A   LADY. 

IN    RETURN    FOR    A    BOOK   OP   MICHEL  ANGELO'S   SONNETS. 

"  Xon  ha  l'ottimo  artista  alcun  concetto 
Ch'  un  solo  marmo  in  so  non  circoscriva 
Col  suo  soverchio,  —  e  solo  a  quello  arriva, 
La  man'  che  obbedisce  all  intelletto." 

Sonnetto  di  Michel  Angela  Buonarroti. 

No  master  artist  e'er  imagines  aught 
That  lies  not  hid,  awaiting  mortal  gaze, 

In  the  rough  marble,  —  if  but  fitly  wrought 
By  one  whose  hand  his  intellect  obeys  : 

His  magic  touch  the  stone's  white  silence  wakes, 

And,  lo  !  the  god  from  his  long  bondage  breaks  : 

Breaks  like  the  blue  morn  from  an  orient  vapor, 
Which  made  the  pilgrim  doubtful  of  the  day ; 

Or  like  the  music  from  the  written  paper 
O'er  which  some  poet  lets  his  fancy  play ; 

Like  new-born  April  from  the  winter's  tomb, 

Or  any  joy  that  springs  from  any  gloom. 

Lady  !  the  fair  material  of  our  being 
Is  put  before  us,  to  be  carved  at  will : 

0 !  wisely  work,  with  clear  conception  seeing 
The  perfect  shape  that  shall  reward  thy  skill : 

Something  there  may  be,  cut  from  every  life, 

Something  to  worship  —  whether  saint  or  wife. 
11 


162 

Learn  Patience  first ;  for  Patience  is  the  part 
Of  all  whom  Time  records  among  the  great, 

The  only  gift  I  know,  the  only  art, 

To  strengthen  up  our  frailties  to  our  fate  : 

Through  long  endurance  comes  the  martyr  crown 

That  makes  the  hero  blush  for  his  renown. 

And,  as  by  many  steps,  from  thorn  to  flower, 
The  patient  petals  of  the  rose  recover 

The  hues  and  fragrance  of  the  golden  hour, 
That  saw  last  summer's  nightingale  her  lover, 

So  may  thy  soul,  if  constancy  be  thine, 

Toil  on  through  trials  till  it  dawn  divine  ! 


SLEEP. 

Somnus  —  or  Morpheus  was  his  name  ? 

I  have  forgot  —  I  cannot  keep 
My  schoolboy  learning  :  as  it  came, 

It  went  —  I  mean  the  god  of  sleep. 

That  god  and  I  were  once  fast  friends, 
But  now  his  face  I  seldom  see ; 

More  oft  the  blessed  rain  descends 
In  Egypt,  than  his  dews  on  me. 

Ah  me !  the  joy  I  had  in  dreams  — 
The  nightly  comfort  to  forget  — 

Is  mine  no  more  ;    the  morning  beams 
On  eyes  like  faded  asters,  wet : 

Yes,  moistened  oft  with  poisonous  tears, 
Till  the  burnt  lashes  look  so  few, 

You  might  suppose  that  threescore  years 
Were  mine,  instead  of  thirty-two  ! 

Well,  I  can  wait  a  little  more, 
A  little  longer  wake  and  weep, 

Until  the  welcome  grave  restore 
The  bliss  of  an  unbroken  sleep. 


164 

Let  me  remember  Him  that  while 

His  tired  disciples  round  him  slept  — 
(The  sinless  born,  that  knew  no  guile  !)  — 
Watched  in  Gethsemane,  and  wept. 
August,  1851. 


SONNET. 

BY  BUON'AGIUNTA  DA  LUCCA. 

This  reade  is  rife,  that  oftentimes  • 

Great  climbers  fall  unsoft  : 

In  humble  dales  is  footing  fast, 
The  trode  is  not  so  tickle, 

And  though  one  fall  through  heedless  haste, 
Yet  is  his  miss  not  mickle. 

Spenser. 

What  man,  by  chance,  is  up,  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Let  him  not  triumph  in  his  being  high  ; 

For  when  her  smiling  side  she  doth  reveal, 

Then  she  turns  round,  and,  golden  days,  good-bye ! 

Never  was  meadow  of  so  fresh  a  green, 

Nor  ever  had  such  flowers  as  would  not  fade  ; 

And  Nature's  law  in  everything  is  seen, 
That  what  was  highest  must  be  lowest  laid. 

Therefore,  let  him  who  wears  to-day  the  crown 
Be  modest  in  his  joy  —  'tis  mickle  pain 

From  the  top-stair  of  all  to  tumble  down  ; 
13ut  every  mountain  cometh  to  a  plain. 


BIRTH-PLACE   OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 

A  lowly  roof  of  simple  thatch,  — 

No  home  of  pride,  of  pomp,  and  sin,  — 

So  freely  let  us  lift  the  latch, 

The  willing  latch  that  says,  "  Come  in." 

Plain  dwelling  this  !  a  narrow  door  — 

No  carpet  by  soft  sandals  trod, 
But  just  for  peasant's  feet  a  floor, — 

Small  kingdom  for  a  child  of  God  ! 

Yet  here  was  Scotland's  noblest  born, 
And  here  Apollo  chose  to  light ; 

And  here  those  large  eyes  hailed  the  morn 
That  had  for  beauty  such  a  sight ! 

There,  as  the  glorious  infant  lay, 

Some  angel  fanned  him  with  his  wing, 

And  whispered,  "  Dawn  upon  the  day 
Like  a  new  sun  !  go  forth  and  sing !  " 

He  rose  and  sang,  and  Scotland  heard  — 
The  round  world  echoed  with  his  song, 

And  hearts  in  every  land  were  stirred 
With  love,  and  joy,  and  scorn  of  wrong. 


167 

Some  their  cold  lips  disdainful  curled ; 

Yet  the  sweet  lays  would  many  learn ; 
But  he  went  singing  through  the  world, 

In  most  melodious  unconcern. 

For  flowers  will  grow,  and  showers  will  fall, 
And  clouds  will  travel  o'er  the  sky ; 

And  the  great  God,  who  cares  for  all, 
He  will  not  let  his  darlings  die. 

But  they  shall  sing  in  spite  of  men, 
In  spite  of  poverty  and  shame, 

And  show  the  world  the  poet's  pen 

May  match  the  sword  in  winning  fame. 


SORRENTO. 

Midway  betwixt  the  present  and  the  past  — 
Naples  and  Pactum —  look  !  Sorrento  lies  : 

Ulysses  built  it,  and  the  Sirens  cast 

Their  spell  upon  the  shore,  the  sea,  the  skies. 

If  thou  hast  dreamed,  in  any  dream  of  thine, 
How  Paradise  appears,  or  those  Elysian 

Immortal  meadows  which  the  gods  assign 
Unto  the  pure  of  heart  —  behold  thy  vision  ! 

These  waters,  they  are  blue  beyond  belief, 

Nor  hath  green  England  greener  fields  than  these 

The  sun  —  't  is  Italy's ;  here  winter's  brief 
And  gentle  visit  hardly  chills  the  breeze. 

Here  Tasso  dwelt,  and  here  inhaled  with  spring 
The  breath  of  passion  and  the  soul  of  song. 

Here  young  Boccacio  plumed  his  early  wing, 
Thenceforth  to  soar  above  the  vulgar  throng. 

All  charms  of  contrast  —  every  nameless  grace 
That  lives  in  outline,  harmony,  or  hue  — 

So  heighten  all  the  romance  of  the  place, 
That  the  rapt  artist  maddens  at  the  view, 


169 

And  then  despairs,  and  throws  his  pencil  by, 
And  sits  all  day  and  looks  upon  the  shore 

And  the  calm  ocean  with  a  languid  eye, 
As  though  to  labor  were  a  law  no  more. 

Voluptuous  coast !  no  wonder  that  the  proud 

Imperial  lloman  found  in  yonder  isle 
Some  sunshine  still  to  gild  Fate's  gathering  cloud, 

And  lull  the  storm  of  conscience  for  a  while. 

What  new  Tiberius,  tired  of  lust  and  life, 

May  rest  him  here  to  give  the  world  a  truce, — 

A  little  truce  from  perjury  and  strife, 
Justice  adulterate  and  power's  misuse  ? 

Might  the  gross  Bourbon  —  he  that  sleeps  in  spite 

Of  red  Vesuvius  ever  in  his  eye, 
Yet,  if  he  wake,  should  tremble  at  its  light, 

As  't  were  Heaven's  vengeance,  promised  from  on  high, 

Or  that  poor  gamester,  of  so  cunning  play, 
Who,  up  at  last,  in  Fortune's  fickle  dance, 

Aping  the  mighty  in  so  mean  a  way, 

Makes  now  his  dice  the  destinies  of  France,  — 

Might  they,  or  any  of  Oppression's  band, 
Sit  here  and  learn  the  lesson  of  the  scene, 

Peace  might  return  to  many  a  bleeding  land, 
And  men  grow  just  again,  and  life  serene. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER 

TWENTY-FOUKTH  OF  OCTOBER,  1852. 

Comes  there  a  frigate  home  ?  what  mighty  bark 
Returns  with  torn,  but  still  triumphant  sails? 

Such  peals  awake  the  wondering  Sabbath  —  hark  ! 
How  the  dread  echoes  die  among  the  vales  ! 

What  ails  the  morning,  that  the  misty  sun 
Looks  wan  and  troubled  in  the  autumn  air  ? 

Dark  over  Marshfield  !  —  't  was  the  minute  gun : 
God  !  has  it  come  that  we  foreboded  there  ? 

The  woods  at  midnight  heard  an  angel's  tread ; 

The  sere  leaves  rustled  in  his  withering  breath  ; 
The  night  was  beautiful  with  stars ;  we  said, 

"  This  is  the  harvest  moon,"  —  'twas  thine,  0  Death ! 

Gone,  then,  the  splendor  of  October's  day! 

A  single  night,  without  the  aid  of  frost, 
Has  turned  the  gold  and  crimson  into  gray, 

And  the  world's  glory,  with  our  own,  is  lost. 

A  little  while,  and  we  rode  forth  to  greet 
His  coming  with  glad  music,  and  his  eye 

Drew  many  captives,  as  along  the  street 

His  peaceful  triumph  passed,  uncmestioned,  by. 


171 

Now  there  are  moanings,  by  the  desolate  shore, 

That  are  not  ocean's ;  by  the  patriot's  bed, 
Hearts  throb  for  him  whose  noble  heart  no  more  — 

Break  off  the  rhyme — for  sorrow  cannot  stop 

To  trim  itself  with  phrases  for  the  ear,  — 
Too  fast  the  tears  upon  the  paper  drop  : 

Fast  as  the  leaves  are  falling  on  his  bier, 

Thick  as  the  hopes  that  clustered  round  his  name, 
While  yet  he  walked  with  us,  a  pilgrim  here. 

He  was  our  prophet,  our  majestic  oak, 

That,  like  Dodona's,  in  Thesprotian  land, 
Whose  leaves  were  oracles,  divinely  spoke. 

We  called  him  giant,  for  in  every  part 

He  seemed  colossal ;  in  his  port  and  speech, 
In  his  large  brain  and  in  his  larger  heart. 

And  when  his  name  upon  the  roll  we  saw 

Of  those  who  govern,  then  we  felt  secure, 
Because  we  knew  his  reverence  for  the  law. 

So  the  young  master  *  of  the  Roman  realm 
Discreetly  thought,  we  cannot  wander  far 
From  the  true  course,  with  Ulpian  at  the  helm. 

But  slowly  to  this  loss  our  sense  awakes ; 

To  know  what  space  it  in  the  forum  filled, 
See  what  a  gap  the  temple's  ruin  makes ! 

*  Alexander  Scvcrus. 


172 

Kings  have  their  dynasties,  but  not  the  mind ; 

Caesar  leaves  other  Caesars  to  succeed, 
But  Wisdom,  dying,  leaves  no  heir  behind. 

Who  now  shall  stand  the  regent  at  the  wheel  ? 

Who  knows  the  dread  machinery  ?  who  hath  skill 
Our  course  through  oceans  unsurveyed  to  feel  ? 

Her  mournful  tidings  Albion  lately  sent, 
How  he,  the  victor  in  so  many  fields, 
Fell,  but  not  fighting,  in  the  fields  of  Kent ; 

The  chief  whose  conduct  in  the  lofty  scene 

Where  England  stood  up  for  the  world  in  arms, 
Gave  her  victorious  name  to  England's  queen. 

But  peaceful  Britain  knows,  amid  her  grief, 

She  could  spare  now  the  soldier  and  his  sword ; 
What  can  our  councils  do  without  our  chief? 

Blest  are  the  peace-makers  !  —  and  he  was  ours,  — 

Winning,  by  force  of  argument,  the  right 
Between  two  kindred,  more  than  rival  powers. 

The  richest  stones  require  the  gentlest  hand 

Of  a  wise  workman  —  be  our  brother's  faults, 
For  all  have  faults,  by  wisdom  gently  scanned. 

Resume  the  rhyme,  and  end  the  funeral  strain  ; 

Dying,  he  asked  for  song,  — he  did  not  slight 
The  harmony  of  numbers,  —  let  the  main 

Sing  round  his  grave  great  anthems,  day  and  night. 


173 

The  autumn  rains  are  falling  on  his  head, 

The  snows  of  winter  soon  will  shroud  the  shore, 

The  spring  with  violets  will  adorn  his  bed, 
And  summer  shall  return,  —  but  he,  no  more ! 

We  have  no  high  cathedral  for  his  rest, 

Dim  with  proud  banners  and  the  dust  of  years ; 
All  we  can  give  him  is  New  England's  breast 
To  lay  his  head  on,  —  and  his  country's  tears. 
Novembeb  1st,  1852. 


DREAMS. 

Some  certain  space  of  every  life, 
Benignly  'twas  decreed  by  Heaven, 

However  hot  or  hard  the  strife, 

Must  be  to  dreams  and  slumber  given. 

Ah !  once  this  wise,  benignant  law, 
Fool  that  I  was !  I  did  not  know ; 

And  thought  him  doltish  when  I  saw 
Pale  Prudence  to  his  chamber  go  : 

And  said,  "  If  life  be  any  boon, 

'T  is  surely  disregard  of  God 
To  lose  in  sleep  these  stars,  this  moon  — 

Did  He  make  moonlight  for  a  clod  ? 

And,  in  my  pride  of  heart,  methought 
I  will  not  sleep am  I  a  Turk  ? 

Therefore  I  sat  and  read  and  wrought, 
For  my  vain  study  seemed  like  work. 

But  now,  in  middle  age,  I  find 

The  gray  hairs  ripening,  and  I  say 

What  profit  was  it,  if  my  mind 

Got  wealth,  —  but  threw  the  world  away  ? 


175 

When  my  heart  nutters  late  at  night, 
"When  my  head  swims  at  early  morn, 

I  count  my  gains,  —  and  find  them  light, 
Poor  fancies  !  that  were  best  unborn. 

Then  do  I  know  that,  after  all, 

The  law  prevails,  —  for  still  it  seems, 

When  my  night  labor  I  recall, 

That  work  of  mine — it  was  but  dreams ! 


TO  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, 

IN    RETURN   FOR   A    TALBOTYPE   PICTURE   OP    VENICE. 

Poet  and  friend  !  if  any  gift  could  bring 
A  joy  like  that  of  listening  while  you  sing, 
'T  were  such  as  this,  —  memorial  of  the  days  — 
When  Tuscan  airs  inspired  more  tender  lays  ; 
When  the  gray  Apennine,  or  Lombard  plain, 
Sunburnt,  or  spongy  with  autumnal  rain, 
Mingled  perchance,  as  first  they  met  your  sight, 
Some  drops  of  disappointment  with  delight; 
When,  rudely  wakened  from  the  dream  of  years, 
You  heard  Velino  thundering  in  your  ears, 
And  fancy  drooped,  —  until  llomagna's  wine 
Brought  you  new  visions,  thousand-fold  more  fine ; 
When  first  in  Florence,  hearkening  to  the  flow 
Of  Arno's  midnight  music,  hoarse  below, 
You  thought  of  home,  and  recollected  those 
Who  loved  your  verse,  but  hungered  for  your  prose, 
And  more  than  all  the  sonnets  that  you  made, 
Longed  for  the  letters  —  ah,  too  poorly  paid  ! 

Thanks  for  thy  boon  !     I  look,  and  I  am  there ; 
The  soaring  belfry  guides  me  to  the  square ; 
The  punctual  doves,  that  wait  the  stroke  of  one, 
Flutter  above  me  and  becloud  the  sun ; 


177 

'T  is  Venice  !  Venice  !  and  with  joy  I  put 

In  Adria's  wave,  incredulous,  my  foot ; 

I  smell  the  sea-weed,  and  again  I  hear 

The  click  of  oars,  the  screaming  gondolier. 

Ha  !  the  Rialto  —  Dominic  !  a  boat ; 

Now  in  a  gondola  to  dream  and  float : 

Pull  the  slight  cord  and  draw  the  silk  aside, 

And  read  the  city's  history  as  we  glide  ; 

For  strangely  here,  where  all  is  strange,  indeed, 

Not  he  who  runs,  but  he  who  swims,  may  read. 

Mark  now,  albeit  the  moral  make  thee  sad, 

What  stately  palaces  these  merchants  had ! 

Proud  houses  once !  —  Grimani  and  Pisani, 

Spinelli,  Foscari,  Giustiniani ; 

Behold  their  homes  and  monuments  in  one  ! 

They  writ  their  names  in  water,  and  are  gone. 

My  voyage  is  ended,  all  the  round  is  past,  — 

See !  the  twin  columns  and  the  bannered  mast, 

The  domes,  the  steeds,  the  Lion's  winged  sign, 

"  Peace  to  thee,  Mark  !  Evangelist  of  mine  !  "  * 

Poetic  art !  reserved  for  prosy  times 
Of  great  inventions  and  of  little  rhymes  ; 
For  us,  to  whom  a  wisely-ordering  Heaven 
Ether  for  Lethe,  wires  for  wings,  has  given ; 
Whom  vapors  work  for,  yet  who  scorn  a  ghost, 
Amid  enchantments  disenchanted  most ; 
Whose  light,  whose  fire,  whose  telegraph  had  been 
In  blessed  Urban's  liberal  days  a  sin, 

*  The  legend  of  the  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark,  seen  everywhere,  at  Venice 
Pax  tibi,  Marce  !  Evangelista  mcus." 

12 


178 

Sure,  in  Damascus,  any  reasoning  Turk 
"Would  count  your  Talbotype  a  sorcerer's  work. 

Strange  power  !  that  thus  to  actual  presence  brings 
The  shades  of  distant  or  departed  things, 
And  calls  dead  Thebes  or  Athens  up,  or  Aries, 
To  show  like  spectres  on  the  banks  of  Charles  ! 
But  we  receive  this  marvel  with  the  rest ; 
Nothing  is  new  or  wondrous  in  the  West ; 
Life 's  all  a  miracle,  —  and  every  age 
To  the  great  wonder-book  but  adds  a  page. 


SAINT  PERAY. 

ADDRESSED    TO    H.    T.    P. 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 
Ever  did  me  any  good  : 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic,  faint  and  sick, 
Once  I  prayed  Saint  Dominick  : 
He  was  holy,  sure,  and  wise  ;  — 
Was  't  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto  da  Fes  and  rosaries  ?  — 
But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next,  in  pleasant  Normandie, 
I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 
In  the  great  cathedral,  where 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose  ; 
But,  how  I  was  swindled  there 

At  the  "  Golden  Fleece," —  he  knows  ! 


180 

In  my  wanderings,  vague  and  various, 
Reaching  Naples  —  as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 
I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 
But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him ; 
Naught  I  said  could  liquefy  him  ; 
And  I  swear  he  did  me  wremg, 
Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 
Jews  and  Greeks  and  things  unclean  — 
What  need  had  I  of  cmarantine  ? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a  score,  — 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more,  — 
And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 
Did  I  pray  to  —  sans  reply  ; 
Devil  take  the  tribe  !  —  said  I. 

Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 

To  Assisi's  walls  I  came  : 

Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 

I  addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis  ; 

But  the  beggar  never  did 

Anything  as  he  was  bid, 

Never  gave  me  aught  —  but  fleas, — 

Plenty  had  I  at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 
Hard  by  the  Rhone,  I  found  a  Saint 

Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice, 
Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 


181 

'T  was  at  Avignon  that  first  — 
In  the  witching  time  of  thirst  — 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  this  blessed  Catholic's  name  ; 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  passed  my  lips, 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 

With  such  magic  into  mine, 
That  methought  such  bliss  as  I  did 

Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Rest  he  gave  me,  and  refection,  — 

Chastened  hopes,  calm  retrospection,  — 

Softened  images  of  sorrow, 

Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow,  — 

Charity  for  what  is  past,  — 

Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 


o  e 


Now,  why  should  any  almanack 

The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack  ? 

Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 

Omit  a  saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 

The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a  day 

Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 

But,  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed, 

On  purpose,  by  the  Lord's  anointed, 

Let  us  not  wait  —  we  '11  do  him  right ; 

Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal  —  and  set  your  night. 


FRANCE8CA  DA  RIMINI. 

A    PICTURE    BY    AEY    SCHOEFFER. 

You  restless  ghosts  that  roam  the  lurid  air, 
I  feel  your  misery,  —  for  I  was  there  : 
Yes,  I  myself,  here  breathing  and  alive, 
Have  seen  the  storm,  and  heard  the  tempest  drive 
Yet  while  the  sleet  went,  withering  as  it  past, 
And  the  mad  hail  gave  scourges  to  the  blast, 
While  all  was  black  below,  and  flame  above, 
Have  thought  —  't  is  little  to  the  storm  of  Love  : 
You  know  that  sadly,  know  it  to  your  cost, 
Ah,  too  much  loving,  and  forever  lost ! 

Still,  suffering  spirits !  ev'n  your  doom  affords 
Kisses  and  tears,  however  poor  in  words  ; 
Brief  is  your  story,  but  it  liveth  long  — 
0  !  thank  for  that  your  poet  and  his  song  : 
Be  it  some  comfort,  in  that  hateful  Hell, 
You  had  a  lover  of  your  love  to  tell ; 
One  that  knew  all  —  the  ecstasy,  the  gloom, 
All  the  sad  raptures  that  precede  the  tomb  ; 
The  fluttering  hope,  the  triumph  and  the  care,  — 
The  wild  emotion,  and  the  sure  despair. 

Not  every  friend  hath  friendship's  finer  touch, 
To  pardon  passion,  when  it  mounts  too  much ; 


183 

Not  every  soul  hath  proved  its  own  excess, 
And  feared  the  throb  it  still  would  not  repress ; 
But  he  whose  numbers  gave  you  unto  fame, 
Lord  of  the  lay,  —  I  need  not  speak  his  name,  — 
Was  one  who  felt ;  whose  life  was  love  or  hate  ; 
Born  for  extremes,  he  scorned  the  middle  state, 
And  well  he  knew  that,  since  the  world  began, 
The  heart  was  master  in  the  world  of  man. 


FIFTH   OF  NOVEMBER, 

GUT  FAWKES'  DAY. 
AT   IIOWE'S    TAVERX,    IN    SUDBURY. 

Oxk  fifth  of  November,  when  meadows  were  brown, 
And  the  woods  were  all  withered,  —  in  Sudbury  town 
Four  lads  from  the  city,  by  special  request, 
At  an  old  tavern  met  for  a  whole  day  of  rest. 

There  was  Henry  and  Austin  and  William  and  John, 
And  the  glasses  went  round  as  the  oak-wood  went  on, 
And  the  spirit  was  kindly,  the  water  was  hot,  — 
Why  then  should  Guy  Fawkes  and  his  day  be  forgot  '. 

He  was  known  in  this  tavern  of  old,  I  expect, 
Though  his  name,  like  the  turnpike,  has  come  to  neglect 
And  I  guess  there  was  loyalty  under  this  roof — 
Sec !  Her  Majesty's  picture  remains  for  a  proof. 

But  distinction  is  lost,  —  the  Queen 's  nobody  now, 
And  a  sovereign  is  not  worth  a  sixpence  to  Howe, 
Though  his  fathers  before  him,  the  sturdy  old  carles, 
By  the  name  of  their  monarch  did  christen  the  Charles. 

There  be  names  on  the  window-panes  written  with  rings, 
When  the  gentles  wore  diamonds  and  all  was  the  king's  ; 
When  Joel  and  Hiram,  as  still  they  should  do, 
Served  the  punch,  my  dear  Henry,  to  persons  like  you. 


185 

But  the  scutcheon  is  faded  that  hangs  on  the  wall, 
And  the  hearth  looks  forlorn  in  the  desolate  hall ; 
And  the  floor  that  has  bent  with  the  minuet's  tread, 
It  is  like  a  church-pavement  —  the  dancers  are  dead. 

Yet  we  summoned  them  back,  and  recalled  ancient  times, 
And  we  roused  the  old  Papist,  repeating  his  rhymes, 
And,  to  help  on  the  humor,  each  man,  with  his  drink. 
Gave  the  arrantest  rascal  of  whom  he  could  think. 

Well,  we  thought  of  all  scandalous  names  that  had  been, 
Cain,  Catiline,  Borgia,  —  the  by-words  of  sin, 
Saint  Dominic  Guzman,  —  Marat,  —  Machiavel, — 
Some  names  that  were  whispered  'twould  start  ye  to  tell. 

Then  Austin  propounded  —  a  health  to  old  Xol ! 
And  the  Puritan  rogues  whom  our  speakers  extol  : 
And  John  racked  his  brain  for  a  villain  of  worth, 
Till  he  happily  lighted  on  Geordie  the  Fourth  : 

While  Henry  thus  answered  the  jovial  call, 

Here  's  to  Louis  Napoleon,  the  Prince  of  'em  all ! 

And  William,  to  wind  up  the  jest  and  the  revel, 

Said  there's  none  to  cap  him  —  so  a  health  to  the  Pevil ! 

But  enough  of  rascality  —  now  for  a  toast 

To  the  most  honest  man  Massachusetts  can  boast ! 

For  his  name  —  never  mind  —  in  this  room  he  hath  been. 

And  may  only  such  guests  come  to  Sudbury  Inn  ! 


ON  SOME  VERSES   OF  METASTASIO.  * 

What  man,  by  gift  of  any  star, 
Deep-read  in  volumes  deeply  writ, 

Kick  in  old  knowledge,  brougkt  from  far, 
On  otker's  wisdom  grafting  kis  own  wit, 
Or  wko,  by  any  prosperous  kit, 

Can  expound  me  wkat  we  are  ? 

What  we  are,  kave  been,  and  may  be  — 
If  man  be  full-grown  man,  —  or  but  a  baby  ? 

Wkat  pale  philosopker  in  glasses, 
Whose  lectures  Lowell  overpaid  for, 

*FROM  METASTASIS 

L'  onola  dal  mar  divisa 

J?agna  la  vallo  c'  1  monte 

Va  passegiera 

In  flume 

Vu  prigioniera 

Tn  fonte 

Mormora  sempre  c  gome 

Fin  che  non  torna  al  mar  — 

Al  mar  dov  'clla  nacque 

Dove  acquisto  gli  umori 

Dove  da'  lunghi  crrori 

Spera  di  riposar. 


187 

G  reat  man  in  genera  and  classes, 
What  clear-eyed  genius,  like  Agassiz, 
Can  unfold  what  I  was  made  for  ? 

Tell  me,  learned  commentator, 

Critical  on  thy  Creator, 

In  what  act,  or  scene,  or  part, 

Of  life's  tragic  play,  thou  art  — 

What  am  I  ?  king,  clown,  or  what 

Is  our  relation  to  the  tangled  plot  ? 

And  in  what  round  of  yon  blue  dome 

Shall  we,  tired  players,  from  the  show  come  home  ? 

For  certes  this  is  not  our  place, 

Though  for  the  moment  we  are  here  ; 

But,  like  the  wild  steed  in  the  Roman  race, 

We  are  but  seen,  and  for  a  space 

Gleam  in  the  Carnival  —  then  disappear  ! 

And  the  crowd  closes  on  the  courser's  track, 

And  the  Pope's  blessing  could  not  win  him  back  ! 

Ev'n  such  a  race  is  life  indeed, 
Hushing  on  in  pride  of  speed, 
Thorough  vales  —  o'er  mountain  ridges  — 
Over  deeps  by  frailest  bridges  — 
(Gentle  engineer,  —  take  heed  !) 
Through  dark  woods  and  deserts  dreary,  — 
Wastes  that  make  remembrance  weary,  — 
Whither  !  whither  !  all !  who  knows  ? 
Let  us  hope  to  some  repose. 

But  we  arc  bells  that  must  be  rung 
Through  all  the  changes,  many  times, 


188 

Until,  in  Heaven's  high  belfry  hung, 
We  sound  the  everlasting  chimes ; 
And  if  we  fail  in  this  life's  trial, 
What  can  we  look  for  but  denial, 
When  the  Great  Judge  declares  our  worth, 
If  of  celestial  metal,  or  of  earth  ? 

0,  Science !  canst  thou  give  me  aught 

More  definite,  to  clear  my  thought  ? 

Naturalist !  I  ask  of  thee, 

What  am  I  —  and  what  shall  I  be  ? 

Say,  am  I  now  in  some  transition  — 

Red  earth,  or  sandstone  —  what  is  my  condition? 

Was  I  a  zoophyte  at  first  ? 

And  shall  I  be  an  angel  next  ? 
Did  I  once  crawl  upon  the  sod  ? 

Answer  —  for  knowledge  I  'm  athirst ! 
But  with  your  learned  terms  perplext — 

May  a  poor  worm  grow  up  to  be  a  god  ? 

Say,  born  molluscous,  do  we  then 
Marble  ourselves  in  time  to  men  ? 
Until  grief's  rain-drops  and  the  rust 
Of  many  cares  leave  naught  but  dust  ? 

Tell  me,  philosopher,  in  few, 
How  't  was  I  hardened  into  coral ! 

Ah  !  poets  are  as  wise  as  you  — 
And  this  is  Metastasio's  moral. 

Water,  from  its  parent  ocean 

Parted,  never  is  content ; 
Ever  murmuring,  if  in  motion, 

Sullen,  if  in  stillness  pent : 


189 

Though  it  sparkle  down  the  mountain, 
Laughing  at  the  flowers  it  laves, 

Leap  in  jet,  or  dance  in  fountain, 
Now  in  drops,  and  now  in  waves ; 

Still  it  murmurs  as  it  flows, 
Still  oomplaineth,  till  at  last, 

In  the  deep  from  which  it  rose, 
After  all  its  wanderings  past, 

Sleeps  the  streamlet  in  repose. 


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